


There Should Be A Place

by imtheonekeepingyoualive (frerardestiel)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (it's not non-con), Accidental Knotting, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Character Death, Christmas Fluff, Communication Failure, Consensual Underage Sex, Derek is a Christmas Baby, Dreams and Nightmares, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentions of Allison Argent - Freeform, Mentions of Claudia Stilinski - Freeform, Pining, Post-Nogitsune, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rimming, Road Trips, Sheriff Stilinski's Name is John, Slow Build, Stiles turns 18, There's a lot of sex in this, What-If, mating and bonding, mention of mates, one mention of possible non-con, post 3x23, very mild D/s tones
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-08
Updated: 2014-11-08
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:59:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 59,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2570723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frerardestiel/pseuds/imtheonekeepingyoualive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The following day, he says goodbye to his dad and Scott (who isn't really that happy Stiles is leaving to go to Derek's, says he's not sure about it but in the end, Stiles doesn't really care about it and Scott can just suck it up for a little while) and puts himself behind the wheel and breathes for the first time after so long only when he sees the <i>You're leaving Beacon Hills</i> sign.</p><p>Freedom never tasted so good.</p><p>**</p><p>Or the one where Derek moved to Montana and Stiles needs to find himself again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. all my love was down in a frozen ground

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Where The Wild Things Are by Maurice Sendak.
> 
> I listened to a lot of Bon Iver, Daughter and Bjork when writing and the music helped a lot for the scenery and the imagery put into this story. Every chapter's title is from a song, the first one is from Bon Iver's Re: Stacks. 
> 
> I also know next to nothing about Montana and the actual trip from California to Montana, all I know is what the internet told me, so I apologize for everything that might be wrong or sounds strange. I tried. For the non-con warning, if you want to know more about it, read the end notes, I put a spoiler there to explain it! 
> 
> Enormous thanks to [Carla](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Charlie_Bb/pseuds/Charlie_Bb), who helped me since March when I started and pushed me to write and finish this behemoth in the costume of a story, cheered me everytime I felt like it was too much and for being basically the best friend anyone could have. I love you! A big big hug to [Megan](http://archiveofourown.org/users/matchboxbones/pseuds/matchboxbones), my love, for being basically there for me even if she's not in the fandom anymore. The power of love. Also a special mention to Sylvia and Carolina who helped me a lot. Every remaining error is mine.
> 
> You can find me on [tumblr](http://imtheonekeepingyoualive.tumblr.com/) usually crying over Tyler Hoechlin's everything, you can come cry with me anytime, I have cookies and ice cream :)

 

“ _ **T**_ _here should be a place where only the things you want to happen, happen.”_

_-_

*

It's almost 7 am and the sky is starting to lighten, little touches of cobalt blue and violet, pink and orange, and Stiles sighs, hand on the steering wheel and his eyes feel dry like sandpaper. Another sleepless night, another night spent driving around town with no place to go, just him, his Jeep and the road.  
  
He usually waits until his dad is asleep before slipping out of the house, careful not to wake him up with the sound of the engine, but tonight he felt especially jittery, like he needed to get out of his bedroom before he started to cry and scream. That's what happens when his dad is home. When he's alone he just spends time staring mindlessly at the TV (sometimes he sits on the couch and starts thinking, and he notices he's in the dark and the TV is off only when he's on the verge of a panic attack) or trying to read something on the internet, or on Netflix, but he still ends up in his car, so he can shut his brain off and try to relieve some of the tension and aching fear he always feels deep in his bones. He's tired, and pale, and shaky from lack of sleep and he feels lightheaded and almost high, driving slowly through the familiar streets.

  
Stiles is sure his dad knows what he does during the night, he's sure somebody must have told him his son is driving around at three o'clock and paying for gas, chips and soda at four. But his dad never says anything, just stares at him when he thinks Stiles isn't looking, that worried frown on his face and the same look he used to throw at Stiles when he thought he was going through some kind of problem - everybody knows what that problem is, he can't sleep without seeing everything he did when the Nogitsune was inside of him, he can't shut his eyes without feeling and smelling the blood and the stench of fear coming off the people he killed, he can't stop thinking Allison is dead and everything fell apart because of him.  
  
Rationally, he knows it wasn't really him but he can remember everything, every single thing, when he tortured Scott and Lydia and Derek and the others, when he toyed with his dad and Mrs. McCall, he sometimes can see Allison dying even though he never saw when she fell. It's like his mind is playing tricks on him, and he can't take it anymore - he can't bear to look Scott in the eyes even if Scott assures him Stiles didn't do anything wrong; he can't smile back at Mrs. McCall without feeling hollow inside; he can't even touch his dad without wanting to puke from guilt. It's almost too much.  
  
He stops the car in the parking lot of a diner and puts his head against the headrest for a moment, eyes burning and red. The only person he can talk to (in the form of a few texts here and there) is Derek. He and Mr. Argent left after what happened with Allison and Stiles understands, he thinks, why they needed to go. He never really caught the moment Derek and Mr. Argent became friends, allies, whatever it is they are, but it happened and Stiles almost got whiplash when he saw the two of them together - they talked and touched each other, the same way two old friends do; they looked comfortable in the presence of the other and Stiles didn't know they were capable of that kind of thing. Derek always looked so far away from them all, so detached, almost the same way Mr. Argent was, but with some differences. Stiles knew he could trust Derek, in theory, and he did (almost even before he realized he actually did trust Derek), he trusted Derek with his life and his dad's too, but at the same time Derek was always so distant and Mr. Argent was just plain scary and Stiles didn't even want to go there. It was probably the striking blue eyes.

  
But Derek. Derek changed a lot since the first time Stiles saw him; he became a new person, one who Stiles liked a lot, who he can talk to when things get too much, even when it's seven in the morning and he didn't sleep a blink. That's why he grabs his phone and opens the last text he received.  
  
S _o just get out for a while. Can't hurt._  
  
Stiles replies _dr_ _ove_ _all around town for what feels like the hundredth time and ended up at the diner on main street. still feel like shit._ and decides to get a milkshake and a couple of waffles, suddenly hungry. The smell of coffee, sugar and grease hits him like a punch in the gut and his stomach grumbles loudly, making him sigh. He really needs to eat like an entire cow, he's so hungry. Maybe a whale.

  
He flops down in a booth at the end of the shop and stares out of the giant window, looking up at the sky, almost all pink and violet now, the sun peeking out a sliver, writes another text to Derek _i_ _think it's this place_ and sends it before he tells the waitress his order.  
  
He ends up eating pancakes, eggs, fries and a milkshake. Still feels awful but at least now his stomach is so full he probably could roll to the car and still be okay with it.

**

It's two days later, when he's all alone again in his Jeep and driving around the deserted streets that an idea strikes him.  
  
He turned the radio on because he hates the silence more than ever lately, and some guy is talking and Stiles isn't even really listening, just likes to hear his voice. That's when he hears: "Today's topic of discussion is: 'What would you do if you could just leave'. Where'd you go? A tropical island, or someplace far, like, I don't know, India? Send a text at..." and Stiles stops listening because that's what he needs to do. He needs to get out of this toxic place, with all the tainted memories and hurt and sorrow. He just needs a change of scenery, breathe new air, see new places. Maybe sleep without waking up screaming for once.  
  
His hands shake from the sudden euphoria, adrenaline running through his veins and it's making him jittery for an entirely new reason. He feels... Elated, almost. Wants to do it now and do it fast. For a moment he thinks he could just take the highway and go somewhere, but he knows he can't actually go far without money or a single idea where to go. He would end up lost somewhere in the desert and die eaten by some awful creature he doesn't even know the existence of. But he's sure they would find him. That's why he stops at the diner again, eats sugary food (even though he shouldn't because he feels like he could jump all over the walls already, but he's a grown up and he can decide what to eat when he wants to eat it) and toys with his phone for a while. Enough time to drink another milkshake, before he realizes it's almost 9 am and his dad is sitting right in front of him, looking at him with a wry smile.  
  
Stiles flails and almost throws the milkshake off the table, but his dad is used to this and stops the toppling glass with a hand and a sigh. 

"Uh, hi dad."  
  
"Stiles," his dad says, and opens a menu and starts to scan it. Even if Stiles knows it's just for show because he always chooses the same things. "Donna told me you come here often, lately."  
  
Stiles clears his throat and grabs is phone again, just to have something to do. "Yeah."  
  
"Sometimes at 7 am," his dad continues, raising his eyes to look at his son.  
  
"Yeah," he murmurs, trying to shrink into himself. He doesn't want to worry his father; doesn't want to jump on him with all his problems, God knows his dad already has enough to deal with; doesn't want to tell him he just can't sleep, can't keep breathing in this town.  
  
"I know it's been hard, son. I know you're going through some hard times, but I can't help you if you don't talk to me. I thought we'd established no more secrets."  
  
The last word makes Stiles flinch. He sighs and lies back against the seat, suddenly very tired. He can't take one of his dad's interrogatories on zero hours of sleep, he just can't.  
  
"I can't go on like this anymore," Stiles says, "I just feel like I'm suffocating. I can't sleep, I can't concentrate, I just go around and my brain is like _fzzzt_. I don't know how to explain it better than this, it's just static. When I'm alone I feel awful, I think and think and think, until it's like my head is on fire - when you're talking to me, I usually listen for the first three seconds and then I just sit there in a trance. School is so hard for me, lately. Do you remember how it was when we didn't know I had ADHD? Before the meds? Well, it's like that now, only worse, because I can't do anything," he's on a roll, it's like he can't stop talking, not even to breathe, and his dad isn't even looking down at the menu anymore, he's just staring at him with wide eyes and a worried expression, but Stiles doesn't stop. "I was listening to the radio earlier and the guy said, said, like, why- no, where would you go if you could go anywhere in this moment and I understood. I need to leave for a while, go somewhere else. This town is literally the worst thing that ever happened to us, dad. I can't go on."  
  
"Stiles-"  
  
"No, Dad. I. I think I know where I wanna go," he barrels on, cutting his dad off and flinching away from his hand. He feels like shit when he sees his dad's hurt face so he grabs his hand hard and they grip each other and don't let go, need the reassurance of the simple touch. "You know Derek and Mr. Argent left. I know you still check on Derek, I know you call him, he told me. And I want to go visit him. For a few days, just to see if I can breathe again. Sleep. Not think about every single bad thing I did. I don't really want to skip school but I don't think it matters now."  
  
"Stiles, wait a second. You're going so fast. Wait. Where did this all come from?" his dad asks, with his worried-parent voice and Stiles tightens his hold on his dad's hand, shaking his head. "Did you at least talk to Derek about this? Did he say yes?"  
  
"Um, no? I wanted to tell you first. Or, like, I just wanted to think about this more and then call him. Send him a text."  
  
His dad raises an eyebrow. "Send him a text."  
  
Stiles gestures with his free hand and says, "It's not like we call each other and talk about our deepest secrets and dreams like you two do."  
  
The Sheriff rolls his eyes and Stiles smirks.  
  
"Whatever, he's a good guy, I just want to know he's doing alright."  
  
"Yeah, I know dad," Stiles softens his tone, because he knows his dad never really thought Derek was the bad guy – well, no, he never really trusted Derek 100% when he went around looking like a criminal and turning teenagers into wolves, but now that they went through all the shit with the Nogitsune together, well, you can say the Sheriff took a liking to Derek. It's almost like his dad needs to parent Derek as much as he can. Stiles knows how much Derek pretends not to care a single blip about it, but in reality he likes being cared for.

The Sheriff pats Stiles' hand and resumes his scanning of the menu.

“If you want to go, I'm not stopping you. You have to ask Derek first, you can't show up at his house out of the blue without telling him first but if he says yes, then okay. You can go.”

Stiles smiles and nods. “I'll text him later, I promise. 

**

That's how he finds himself packing all his clothes a few days later, sweaters and jeans and warm things because Derek assured him it was really cold in Montana and knowing Stiles and his fragile self, he surely would end up freezing in a couple of shirts. Derek thinks he's funny. His dad buys him more warm clothes and Stiles knows Derek and him spent the previous evening talking about Stiles and how his idea of wearing a coat is really just putting on long sleeved shirts and nothing else. Maybe sweaters.

Stiles sent Derek a message as soon as his dad left him in the diner's parking lot that morning after the talk, and Derek replied that if the Sheriff was okay with it, then he was okay with having Stiles around for a few days, no problem. Stiles never told anyone he grinned at his phone like a loon for too long when he read the text. He drove home, checked the weather for the following days in Montana (texted Derek again to know if it was really that cold over there and Derek sent back only a _YES_ , typical) and put Derek's address on his phone. His dad wasn't so keen on letting him drive to Montana all by himself, he wanted to book him a flight but Stiles said the drive surely would've helped him clear his head and he needed it. They discussed it for a while and in the end his dad relented.

The following day, he says goodbye to his dad and Scott (who isn't really that happy Stiles is leaving to go to Derek's, says he's not sure about it but in the end, Stiles doesn't really care about it and Scott can just suck it up for a little while) and puts himself behind the wheel and breathes for the first time after so long only when he sees the _You're leaving Beacon Hills_ sign.

Freedom never tasted so good.

**

The first few hours are okay, everything is new and exciting and Stiles is so happy to have left that he drives for five hours straight without blinking. He's not even tired, but his eyes are burning and he's hungry, so he stops at a McDonald's and eats something. It's a warm day, and Nevada isn't so bad, really. He buys an ice cream and goes out, sits on the passenger seat of his Jeep with the door open and eats it slowly, savoring it like a treasure. He already feels different, better, like he could almost sleep for a while and he wouldn't wake up drenched in fear and sweat. He won't, because he wants to reach Montana as soon as he can but it's good to think he could.

He leaves Nevada and enters Idaho, drives for a while with gritty eyes and jittery hands, not even focusing on the scenery, just looking for a place to sleep and eat something, shower and change out of his clothes that smell like sweat and tiredness. He finds a motel that doesn't look like a crime scene – at least, not as much – and books a room for the night, tells the old woman behind the desk he's leaving tomorrow morning as soon as he wakes up. Hauls all his luggage over the stairs to his room, because he doesn't trust anybody not to steal anything and hopes nobody gets the stupid idea of trying to touch his baby. She's old but still pretty.

When he's finally behind the closed door of the rented room, he sighs and flops down on the bed, immensely tired. His brain is completely empty, like there's a faint buzzing and nothing else inside, his ears feel like there's cotton in them, the noise wiped out making him feel like he's underwater. He hates being so tired but not being able to sleep. He's also very hungry but just the thought of getting up again and find a vending machine is making him groan and shudder. He probably could just go to sleep for a while and find out if he's gonna wake up again in a couple of hours, maybe get up then and find something to eat. Shower away the gritty feeling of driving for a day straight. He toes his shoes off and the muted thump on the carpeted floor is the only sound in the empty room. He shuffles on the bed until his head is on the pillow and just closes his eyes.

He's out like a light.

** 

This time, he dreams about his mom. It's not a nightmare, but he still feels like he can't wake up soon enough. Usually when he dreams of his mom, it's ugly and terrifying 

She's sitting beside him and they're on a beach somewhere, the only sound is the crashing of the waves against the rocks and the quiet calmness of the ones reaching the shore just to then go back, leaving behind only white foam and wet sand. The sky is a pale gray and there's a chilly wind that grazes his naked arms, doesn't really bother him that much in the alternate reality of the dream. His mom is pretty, long dark hair and big brown eyes shining at him, that same smile Stiles always sees in the pictures hanging over the walls at home. She's his mom and Stiles misses her every day like it's the first day; who says time heals wounds is a liar.

“Hi baby,” she says, looking at him.

“Mom,” Stiles mutters, looks at her for a moment then back at the dark sea.

“Hey baby, it's been a while,” her voice is soft and Stiles doesn't remember it very well, too much time and sorrow, but he thinks it sounded like this. Suits her. “How are you?”

Stiles feels his eyes start to sting and wet and he shrugs, doesn't know what to say to her. “Could be better.”

She frowns. “Why? What's the matter?”

Stiles remembers her and how she was before the illness, how she was very different when he was tiny and she held him in her arms, kissed him a lot just because she wanted to, big smacks on his cheeks that made him erupt in laughter – how she changed, slowly but relentlessly, little things that at first didn't really stand out to them, but made her become a new person soon enough.

“I miss you so much, mom,” he tells her, voice raspy.

She pouts and tries to reach him, but she can't. Her hand stops too far away from him and he looks at it for a long while, her petite fingers with cute nails. She always had such nice hands.

“I miss you, too. I miss your dad. I miss us,” she whispers, and he doesn't want to see her cry, so he wipes away his own tears and smiles a little. Mom looks at him and does the same. “Always my brave little baby.”

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, lowering his gaze. “Not so brave lately.”

“I don't think so.”

Stiles looks at the seagulls making pirouettes in the air, their bright silhouettes stark against the clouded sky and sighs, doesn't really want to say to her what happened, doesn't want to worry her, even if he knows this is only a dream, but maybe she's really talking to him and he doesn't want to risk it. He wants his mom happy, happy with him and his dad and their lives. 

“It's been hard lately,” he responds. 

She hums and Stiles sees her nod.

“You look a little pale. Almost like me. So much like me.” 

“I do, I'm exactly like you. Diagnosed me with the same sickness,” he tells her and she gasps. “Always was the same as you, looked like you, dad used to tell me that. That I was your copy and he was happy,” he can't look at her anymore, but he goes on. “Found out I don't really am sick but I wasn't surprised. It could happen in the future, maybe when I'm the same age as you,” he doesn't really say that sometimes he sees her when she was sick and out of her mind in himself, especially now after what happened with the Nogitsune – they look so alike.

“Stiles, don't even say it. You're not me, you're not gonna end up like me. You're _you,_ okay? You look so much like your dad, I just want to see you two together again, see you happy.”

“I know, mom. We are. It's difficult, but we go on. We're Stilinskis, aren't we?” he smiles at her through the curtain of tears and she smiles back, so pretty and so nice.

“Where are you going?” she asks him and Stiles raises an eyebrow, surprised.

“How'd you know?”

She gestures over his shoulders and he turns to look, finds the Jeep parked at the top of the little hill behind them, waiting for him.

“Oh.”

“Going somewhere, eh?”

“Yeah, I'm.” he doesn't know what to say, really, so he just talks. “Gonna visit a friend. I needed to, you know, just leave for a while. I was feeling trapped, it happens.”

“That's true. I hope you're feeling better now,” she burrows one hand in the sand and then lets it slowly fall down from her palm, smiles at him when there's no left, only a few grains stuck to her skin.

“I don't know yet. I think I will feel better when I get there. Well, I do feel better than when I was home, but now I just want to sleep and not dream for like, three months.”

She laughs and he stops breathing.

“I'm glad you dreamed of me. Wanted to talk to you, see you all grown up. You're so handsome, my little baby,” she's looking at him all happy and with kind eyes, an image he still keeps close to his heart. Stiles longs for her, for this side of her he will always miss, the side of her he always thinks about when he thinks of her, the one untainted by the illness. “You're so tall and I like your hair, suits you. Couldn't be anything else than absolutely gorgeous, though. I am your mother, after all,” and then she starts laughing again and he can't help but join her.

They stay in silence for a while after that, just looking at the waves and the seagulls and almost relaxing. It's warmer than he thinks it should be, the wind still moving his mom's hair on her shoulders, but it's peaceful here, it makes him think of all the days they spent at the beach in the summer, how his mom used to love the water and helped him stay afloat when he wanted to learn how to swim. He likes it here but he feels like he has to go soon, and he's sad to leave.

“You have to wake up now, love. I'm so happy we talked. I'm so happy I saw you and how you changed, you're so big now and I'm proud of you. Remember this, okay? I'm proud of you and your dad, and I miss you, but it's gonna be fine. You're the best thing that ever happened to me. I love you.”

He's openly crying now, and he nods at her, to let her know he gets it, but she's already vanishing, like a dream, but she's still smiling, and he just let the tears fall down on his cheeks.

“I love you, mom,” Stiles whispers and she's gone, leaving him alone again; and it hurts, it hurts so much, because she was there but she wasn't really and he hates that he always has to go through this again every time. He dreams of her and he feels awful because he remembers every single detail so precisely, and little by little, he loses them again.

When he wakes up, he's not screaming, he's not sweating, but he's crying and his chest aches. He's not sure this isn't worse than when he dreams about killing people.

It's five am and he decides he's gonna take a shower, grab his things and resume his journey. Probably eat something on the road. He wants to reach Derek today. He can't take this loneliness anymore. He feels cold and the room looks bigger than he remembered and not even the shower can warm him up.

**

The last part of the trip goes smoothly, even if it feels like it's taking even longer than what he thought to get there. It's getting colder and colder the closer he gets to Montana; he understands why Derek told him to pack every single warm item of clothing he possessed – it's probably going to snow and the last time Stiles saw the snow he was little and his mom was still alive. He turns the heating up in the car and tries to sink deeper into the one sweater he's wearing, glancing at his phone to see where he is, if Derek is still far or if he's getting closer. He finds out there's only about an hour of driving left and he's glad, because he's starting to get really tired and he needs to walk to get the feeling back in his legs and butt. It's the longest he drove, ever, and it's taking its toll on him, not used to being inside the car this long.

The scenery is spectacular and, even if the sky is a pale gray, all the trees and mountains around him are amazing, he can see why Derek feels better here – probably the wolf part in him likes to have all this, the possibility of being outside in the nature and not being trapped inside a city, no one wants to kill him for being a werewolf and, not for the first time, Stiles wonders how Derek changed. He's gonna find out soon, and he can't wait.

From the texts he got, Stiles can see that Derek is happier, almost like he finally found himself again, he's not snappy words and rough edges now, he's more mellow almost, calmer. Stiles is sure he himself also changed, a lot, he knows it, he just doesn't want to acknowledge it, scared of what he'd find if he did.

It's dark when his phone beeps with a message from Derek asking him where he is and if he needs help. _Probably_ , Stiles thinks, but he doesn't want any, wants to find the house by himself, he has the address and everything, his GPS works perfectly, so he stops for a moment at a red light and sends back he's in town and he can do it alone, thank you very much. He bites his lips while he waits for the light to change, his phone in his lap, and he feels almost bad for saying no to Derek, the other's being so nice to him with all this trip thing that he should've said yes, but he's tired of people treating him like he's useless. He can drive to Montana all alone, he can find Derek's house alone. He's not stupid.

That's why, when the voice in his phone tells him that he needs to turn right again and then he's reached destination, a while later, he breathes deep and says “finally,” with a groan. He's beat, and it's not even seven in the evening but he just wants to sleep in a bed.

Derek lives in a cabin-like house, it looks like a little cottage all wood and stones, and it's really pretty from what Stiles can see in the dark. There's a light on inside and on the porch, Derek's leaning against the half-closed door behind him with a jacket on and his arms crossed. He's looking at him, waiting for Stiles to park, and Stiles feels his heart pick up speed, only for a moment, before it settles again on its own normal beating.

It's just that he hasn't seen Derek in a long time, and they didn't actually say goodbye, it was all messed up and they were all full of problems, everyone focused on keeping all the pieces together. That's why Derek left with Chris, he too needed to think about himself for once. And now Stiles is here.

Before Stiles can even try and have a minor panic attack at the prospect of having invaded Derek's tranquility, the driver's door of his Jeep is being yanked open and Stiles squeaks, because Derek is right there, looking at him with his usual unimpressed face. And he's handing over his jacket to Stiles.

“Put this on, before you catch pneumonia. I told you it was really cold here, why didn't you put on a coat or something.” Derek says, without even saying hi first, so rude, and Stiles feels his shoulders relax a little, because Derek is so much _Derek_ that he can't help but smile a little. He grabs the jacket and puts it on, sighing because it's still warm from Derek's body, and this is a thought he's not gonna follow.

“I brought warm clothes!” Stiles exclaims, bending over the seat to grab his phone and charger and the cup of warm coffee he bought to stay alert on the road. It's cold now, though. He pouts for a moment then thinks it's probably better he didn't finish it because he already drank a few huge cups, today, and too much coffee always makes him feel jittery, all over the place, when coupled with his meds. Derek is still watching him from where he's looming from two inches away and Stiles rolls his eyes. “I did! And there's a lot of bags you need to help me carry inside. All filled with warm clothes!”

Derek sighs and walks to the back of the car without waiting for Stiles to open it. He takes three bags alone, the biggest ones, and goes inside. Stiles watches him with raised eyebrows because the bags were really heavy but werewolf powers come in handy sometimes. Even if he's wearing Derek's jacket, it's still so very cold so he hurries to grab his last bag and close his Jeep and all but runs inside.

It's so warm inside that Stiles almost falls back on his ass, his muscles protesting from all the hours spent sitting down confined in a small space. He takes a moment to look over Derek's house, leaving the bag near the door. It's not too big, like Derek's loft felt, not lived in and cold; this house feels warm and familiar, all wooden walls and big windows. Even the lights are different, almost with an orange-y hue to them; there's a kitchen and a table on the left, a big living room with a comfortable looking sofa and a big fireplace on the other side, and stairs that lead to an open space that's filled with a big bed and a window.

There isn't a lot of furniture, but Derek never was one for decorating and it suits him. It's not too much, but it's pretty. Home-y. He smiles and shrugs out of the jacket, intending to go and look around, but he stops when he sees Derek watching him. Stiles feels his smile drop and his eyes widen, but he didn't see, _really_ see Derek outside, it was dark and he just. Didn't. But now, inside, with all the lights on and only a few feet separating them, Stiles can see him. _Look_ at him. Derek is still the same, even if he's not wearing tight henleys or black jeans; he's wearing a comfortable looking shirt and washed out jeans, thick boots and , Jesus, his beard is even worse than the last time Stiles saw him. He's tragically handsome as usual, but now he looks like a _lumberjack_ , the ones with muscles and the beards and he's also wearing a fucking plaid shirt that looks like one of Stiles', green and blue. This is so bad. Only Derek could move to Montana and still dress like an Abercrombie model.

And Stiles thought the leather jacket and v-necks were awful. He clearly still hadn't seen Derek like this.

He almost wants to roll his eyes, but he doesn't. Derek looks good, that's the problem. He looks really really good, and well rested and. Happy. Derek doesn't have that same guilty, haunted expression he always wore back home. He's looser, and probably doesn't shave a lot looking at his beard. His eyes are pale and big, no traces of bruises under, no traces of the same old frown that was the sole expression Derek used to wear. Even his eyebrows look calmer.

“It's. Pretty here,” Stiles mumbles, Derek's jacket still hanging from his arms.

Derek nods. “Thanks. I like it.”

Stiles looks down at his shoes and sighs, “ I. I wanted to thank you for letting me stay here for a few days. I just.”

“No problem, you look like shit,” Derek says and Stiles pretends to be affronted, snorts and looks back up at him. “Even if it looks like you're staying three months, not a few days.”

When Stiles frowns in confusion, Derek nods at the bags he left near the couch.  
  
“Have you tried to fold a thick coat and put it in a bag? You need at least a bag for every item of clothing you possess. At least. Maybe two if it's a really big coat. A couple of sweaters and you filled another bag.”

Derek shrugs and motions at Stiles to finally take his jacket - Derek's jacket - off, and come in for real. “You hungry?”

“Eh,” Stiles says, hanging the jacket near the door. “I could eat. I didn't really have the time to eat anything since I left yesterday.”

Derek is moving to the kitchen and Stiles follows him, but stays back a little, not wanting to get in the way. He doesn't really know what to do. He watches Derek open the fridge and peer inside, grab something and then close the door. He looks while Derek grabs a pan and starts cooking, comfortable in his home and it feels strangely domestic. Like Stiles is invading something private.

Derek glances at him from over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Set the table. Plates are near the sink, cutlery in the first drawer,” he says, pointing while talking.

Stiles does as told and tries not to think that this will be the first time he eats alone with Derek, the first time he spends time alone with Derek that doesn't involve immediate danger and a swimming pool with a deadly Kanima a few feet away or one of them dying. This is so strange. He didn't really think about this before he left, he just needed to forget about Beacon Hills for a while, but now that he's here. It's weird. Derek and him never were close friends, they were, like, allies. But then, unexpectedly, Stiles found himself looking for Erica and Boyd with Derek without telling Scott and at the moment, he didn't really think about it because, well, Stiles didn't even really like Derek before. He thought Derek was rude and offensive and creepy. He still thinks Derek is rude and offensive sometimes, but probably not as creepy as he was. He hopes he won't be finding Derek looming over him while he watches him sleep, like in Twilight. He doesn't seem the type, but, you know.

“Pass me a plate,” Stiles hears Derek say and he jolts out of his reverie, grabs a plate from the table and hands it to the other. He sees that Derek cooked omelets with ham and cheese. “Go sit down.”

Stiles goes and it's not until Derek is sitting right in front of him, already eating, that he asks “what is with all the orders?”

Derek looks at him and chews for a while. Stiles doesn't think that the way Derek eats is endearing, all closed mouth and calmness. Stiles looks like he's been starving for weeks when he eats, he usually takes big bites and ends up with a lap full of food.

“You're not moving if I don't tell you first. You can walk around, you never had a problem before. You just barged into my house every time you wanted. It's not different now.”

Stiles gapes at him and then frowns. “This is the longest conversation we had since last summer, I need a moment,” Derek doesn't say anything, just goes on eating and Stiles would sigh if he wasn't so tired. “And. I just don't want to get in the way? I feel like I _still_ barged into your house even if I asked first. I don't wanna intrude,” he mumbles the last part and lowers his eyes, toys with his food, cuts it into tiny parts and doesn't eat it. He can feel Derek's eyes on him, but doesn't want to look up.

“If you get in the way, I'll tell you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods and shrugs. “I know, just,” lets his fork clank against the plate and takes a sip of water to buy some time. “I need to sleep, that's all. I think I'll be better here. It's peaceful.”

“Yeah.”

“Just,” Stiles bites his lip and finally looks up at Derek, who's looking back at him with a weird expression. “If I scream, or get up during the night. Don't mind me, okay? Try to go back to sleep, if you can. I'll just wake up when it's over.”

Derek frowns and then nods.

“Time to invest in some earplugs,” Stiles tries to joke, but Derek doesn't smile so he just sighs and turns back to his untouched food.

It's going really well.

**

Stiles finds out that the couch turns into a bed – after Derek raised an eyebrow at Stiles' pillow, like he's the only person in the world who can sleep only if he has his own pillow, like, c'mon - and he's so glad he's gonna sleep near the fireplace he laughs and launches himself on the mattress, almost getting Derek in the face with a foot. And making the bed creak dangerously.

“Ohh!” Stiles exclaims, still laughing, but this time at Derek, “you're out of shape if I almost kicked you in the face.”

Derek grabs his ankle and looks at him so unimpressed that Stiles can't breathe. “Go to sleep, Stiles.”

“Yes, dad,” Stiles responds, “I need to go to the bathroom first, though.”

Derek lets him go and points at a door to their right. “I'm going to bed, too. Tomorrow I need to go into town and it's better if you come, too. I need to stock up on food and you can choose what you want before the snow gets here.”

Stiles opens his mouth to say something, then he thinks better of it and just nods. He liked the snow, from what he remembers. He wants to see it. Maybe he can go out and play with it. If only Scott was here. He needs to call his dad and tell him he's at Derek's. He hopes his dad didn't eat any hamburgers and fries.

When he comes back from the bathroom, Derek is nowhere to be seen. The lights are out and the only source of light is the fire. It's warm and pretty to look at, he probably could tend to it even if he never learned how. It can't be that hard. He promises himself he's going to ask Derek to show him how to make a fire.  
  
He shoots his dad a message saying that he's okay and found Derek's house with no problem whatsoever and he's gonna call him as soon as he wakes up but now he's beat, just not to make his old man worry too much.

When he closes his eyes, the covers heavy and cold but with the warmth of the fire and the house all around him, he can hear Derek and rustling covers somewhere above him and he hopes he can sleep for the first time in months.

** 

He's alone in the dark and it's cold, so cold. He doesn't know where he is, at first. He just feels the chill in his bones and he wants to get away, go home 

He tries to get up, but he cries out when he feels a sharp pain in his right ankle. He's trapped and he can't get up.

“No!” he says, warm tears running down his cheeks. He touches his ankle with shaky fingers and feels blood everywhere, slippery and cold. He needs to understand what is trapping him, try to get away as fast as he can, but it's so dark and he can't see a thing. He can only figure out by touch. There's a wall on his left, it's scratchy and Stiles can't really find out how big it is because he can move only a few feet in each direction before he gets tugged back, pain sharp and bile rising in his throat.

“Help!” he calls, voice rough and dry. “Help!”

“Nobody can hear you, Stiles,” a voice singsongs behind him.

Stiles startles so bad he inadvertently moves his wounded leg and the pain is so bad he can't even think for a few seconds.

“Who's there?”

“You know us, Stiles,” the voice sounds closer, and Stiles knows it, he does. He heard it so many times, for so long, that he doesn't know how he forgot it.

“No,” he whimpers, tries to get away from the monster that used him for months and made him kill and torture and let him watch, spectator in his own body. “No...”

“You're all alone, Stiles. There's no one else here but us.”

Stiles slips on his own blood, almost brains himself against the wall in his haste to not let himself be touched , he doesn't even want to hear what it has to say.

“Leave me alone, what do you want from me?”

“We want you to see. To understand,” the Nogitsune says, and then suddenly there's a blinding light all around them, so bright Stiles can't keep his eyes open. He covers his face with a hand and then tries to look around, find out where he is, to recognize the place and then sees red everywhere. On the floor, hand marks all over the walls, like Stiles messed everything up when he touched his leg and then put his hand on the wall. But he can't understand how he dirtied the whole room, he couldn't – still can't – move if not for a few feet, he certainly couldn't move across the room.

“What?” he says, because it doesn't make sense. He can't see anything else and he needs to understand. To see. There's just so much blood.

“You need to understand you're alone. You and us, Stiles. You killed them all,” the Nogitsune sounds so fucking happy to say it, and Stiles shakes his head, wants to hide his face in his hands, doesn't want to see anymore. “You killed them all, _one,_ ” it singsongs, “ _by. One._ ”

And then sees all his friends, his father, Mrs. McCall, Derek dead in a pool of blood, their eyes empty.

Stiles screams.

**

He wakes up screaming, so much his throat is on fire, but he can't stop seeing everybody he loves dead. He doesn't understand which one is reality and which one is the nightmare, it feels so real every time he dreams. The covers are smothering him so he sits up and tries to throw them down and away.

He realizes he's still screaming when Derek runs down the stairs with wide eyes and open palms.

“Jesus, Stiles,” Derek says, in a soft voice.

Stiles looks at him, sees him dressed only in a white shirt and loose sweatpants, and then the images of Derek dead in a pool of his own blood, like he was in the dream, pale eyes empty and a sword right through the heart, fill his head. Fuck, he feels sick even if he _knows_ Derek is alive, like his dad is, Scott and Mrs. McCall, too, but he can't stop thinking about the things the Nogitsune said, everything he did. He didn't kill Derek, but he wanted to.

“I'm. Sorry,” he mumbles, voice thick with tears. His hands are shaking and he can still see the blood, red matting his fingers and palms. “Didn't want to wake you up.”

“Can't sleep with you screaming like that,” Derek replies. “You okay?”

 _No_ , Stiles thinks. _I'm not okay. I'm probably crazy_. But he says, “yeah,” because he doesn't know what to say. Doesn't want to put his own problems on Derek's shoulders now that they're in the same room. It was easier to talk about it when they weren't even in the same State.

He knows he won't be able to go back to sleep now, so he sighs, scratching at his scalp with blunt nails until he feels like he's going to draw blood. His head hurts, his eyes hurt, both from the lack of sleep and from the tears. He maybe should buy sleeping pills or something, but he doesn't really like the idea of drugging himself to sleep. He's afraid that's not gonna stop the nightmares and he won't be able to wake up.

“You want some warm milk?”

He snaps his head up to look at Derek, who's rummaging in the kitchen, his back to Stiles.

“I...”

Derek gets the milk from the fridge and pours it into a small pot, then turns and grabs two mugs from the cupboard, still not looking at Stiles.

“My mom used to make this when me and my sisters had nightmares. She put honey in it, because she said we needed something warm and sweet so we could go back to sleep.”

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that, Derek never talks about his family if it's not prompted or because he needs to share something that can help everybody when they're in danger. This is Derek actually opening up voluntarily. This is a first.

“Thanks...” Stiles whispers, then gets up when Derek pours the milk into the mugs.

“Put some honey in it. It's good.” Derek says, handing a spoon to him and then taking a jar from the shelf behind them. Stiles takes the spoon and then watches Derek put an enormous quantity of honey in his milk, snorts when Derek licks the remnants off his own spoon, and then does the same.

They drink in silence, leaning against the kitchen counter. Stiles knows he's not gonna go back to sleep, but it feels good drinking something warm, staying in silence, Derek's presence beside him.

 

**

The milk worked, apparently. He went back to sleep after a long while, but he did it.

When he wakes up, the sun is shining outside and Derek is coming in through the door that leads to the back, the sound of the door locking what woke Stiles up in the first place, and he feels the cold breeze wash over him. He shivers a little and burrows completely under the covers, throws them up over his own head and moans.

“What time is it?” he grumbles, mouth smashed against the pillow.

Derek snorts and says, “Eight am, I was going to wake you up because we need to get into town before it's too late if we want to find something to buy.”

Stiles groans out loud, peeks from under the blanket fort to glare at Derek. “You go grocery shopping at this ungodly hour?”

Derek looks at him like he's an idiot and then shakes his head, rolls his eyes just to convey how much Stiles annoys him.

“I told you the snow is coming, everybody is going to stock up on food and other goods, so if we want to still find something, we should leave now. Get up.”

Stiles doesn't want to do as told, but he does. He gets up, mumbling about, and glares at Derek all the while. It's too cold to actually stand in the middle of the living room in only his pajama, so he gathers some warm clothes and goes to the bathroom, leaving Derek and his annoying face alone.

**

When they leave, though, Stiles can't stop staring at the scenery. It's too pretty.

There are mountains he can spot from where he is, the tops white with snow, lots and lots of trees and the air is chilly and dry, smells really good, pure. It's completely different from what he used to see in California, where the woods are humid and brown – here everything is multicolored, green and blue and gray and he feels his chest expand a little more, like he can breathe a little easier.

He bundled up in a warm jacket and he's not really freezing, he's just unused to such weather, so he can't wait to finally get inside Derek's car where there's heating and a closed space. What he doesn't expect is a dark blue truck waiting for them, when he steps outside. He really didn't.

He needs to stop for a moment and assess what he's seeing, because holy shit, Derek drives a dark blue truck. He really is a lumberjack.

“At least it's not a soccer mom car,” he says, to which Derek replies “just get inside, Stiles,” with no heat whatsoever behind it. He smirks and follows Derek, sighs when he closes the door behind him and the cold isn't cutting his cheeks anymore. He puts his hands in the pockets of his coat and leans back against the seat and just watches Derek turn the engine on, long fingers closed around the key and smiles to himself. Turns to the window so he can look outside.

“I parked your Jeep in the garage,” Derek says after a while, Stiles engrossed in watching what's going on outside, the little shops littering the streets and the multitude of people wandering about, everybody with windswept hair and pink cheeks.

Stiles looks back at him and says, “I figured when I didn't see her outside this morning. Thanks.”

Derek nods and Stiles goes back to people-watching. It's silent in the truck, but Stiles doesn't feel the need to put on some music, turn the radio on just to hear inane chatter that he won't even listen to. Derek's presence is strong beside him, can almost feel his warmth from where he's sitting a couple of feet from him and the sounds of the town around them are enough for now. There are faint noises reaching them, like laughter and someone shouting a greeting at someone else and all of that, added to the sunlight washing over the streets and mountains, make him feel lighter than he felt in a long time. There are a lot of pretty colorful Christmas decorations swinging from garlands, smiley Santas, snowmen, reindeer with silly horns, golden bells, people wearing plaid and hats, tiny shops with warm lights inside and Stiles decides he really likes this place.

Derek takes a left turn, then, and parks in front of a cute little supermarket. He motions Stiles to follow him inside and then leaves. He didn't even lock the truck or anything, this is crazy. Is Derek really sure nobody is gonna steal it? Who is this Derek? This is literally the strangest thing that happened since Stiles arrived, but he's not gonna comment on it. Mostly because he's alone in the middle of the sidewalk and he should probably get inside. It's still too chilly for him.

Stiles finds Derek in the fresh produce aisle, putting a couple sacks of potatoes on a cart and exchanging pleasantries with an elderly couple, both with braided jet black hair streaked in white, faces lined with crinkles and still soft looking, like the thing is perfectly normal and Stiles isn't looking around with wide eyes to see if he's in an alternate universe. Could be. Because Derek is smiling. And nodding at something the old man said and then he's helping them putting heavy things in _their_ cart and Stiles just needs a moment. To. He doesn't know. Sit down and think.

Derek turns around and looks right back at him, raises an eyebrow and then frowns. “Stiles? What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” he says, faintly. He slowly makes his way towards Derek's clone and furtively glances at the two old people who are still looking at both of them, smiles on their faces and this is weird? Yes, this is really weird. “I was just. Resting. For a moment.”

Derek is looking at him like he knows Stiles is bullshitting him, but doesn't say anything, just points to the lettuce in front of them and says, “you want something?”

Stiles gapes at him for a long moment, then gapes at the two old people, then at Derek, then at the lettuce. “I. No?”

“Okay, put anything you want in the cart,” Derek says, then nods at the two still looking at them with condescending faces and pushes the cart around like he doesn't have a single care in the world and he's only here to buy things. Which. Is precisely what they're here for, so Stiles should probably follow him.

“Dude,” he breathes, when he reaches Derek, who is now in another aisle. “This is so weird.”

“It's just grocery shopping, Stiles.”

“Don't use that tone with me, the fact that you go grocery shopping, alone, makes me want to reevaluate my whole life.”

Derek rolls his eyes at him so hard he's probably gonna sprain something in, like, a second, then throws five stacks of meat in the cart. Stiles goggles at them but then he's kinda used to it with Scott, who eats like he's starving every time. “Just put something in the cart and shut up.”

“Also, you help old people. This is like. New for you. Relatively, I think. I'm not sure,” Stiles goes on, finds something he really likes and puts it in the cart, looks up at Derek with raised eyebrows like _you happy now?_

Derek doesn't reply, just walks away and leaves Stiles to hurry up and follow him.

“No, like, I'm really glad you, I don't know, feel better here?” Stiles says to him when he catches up to Derek, finds him stocking up on things like honey and sugar. “You look better.”

Derek looks at him for a split second, then turns back to the box of cereal Stiles put in the cart earlier. Stiles runs a hand through his hair and sighs, grabs a jar of raspberries jam and decides to put it with the rest of their groceries, just to do something.

“Derek, dear!”

Stiles whips his head around when he hears someone call for Derek and finds a little old lady with white hair and wearing a really heavy green cardigan, coming over to them. She's smiling kindly first at Derek and then at Stiles and it still feels weird that seemingly anyone is smiling here. It's probably the Christmas spirit.

“Hi Mrs. Jacobs,” Derek replies, bends down to let the cute lady kiss him on the cheek. Stiles leans heavily on the cart and watches, hypnotized. “How are you today?”

“I'm fine, dear, thank you. If you stop by my house later, I made you those cookies you like so much.”

Stiles can't help but snort a little thinking about Derek and cookies in the same sentence. It's a little jarring and maybe endearing. Derek tightens his lips for a millisecond when he hears Stiles but then smiles down at Mrs. Jacobs and nods.

“Sure, thank you. Do you need a hand with something? Should I bring the toolbox with me?”

The lady swats her hand and shakes her head, then caresses Derek cheek and smiles. “No, dear, thank you. Everything is fine at home, you did a very good job, the faucet doesn't leak anymore.”

Derek nods once and steps aside, puts a hand on the middle of Stiles' back and pushes him forward delicately. Stiles stumbles and crashes against one of the shelves, surprised by the contact. The lady laughs and Derek sighs. It feels like being back in school, but Stiles is used to it.

“Who's this charming boy, Derek?”

“Charming?” Derek says, looking at Stiles like he's _that_ kid parents dread and they never want to take anywhere. “This is Stiles, he's staying with me for a few days. He's a friend from back home.”

Stiles coughs and then wipes his right hand on his jeans, so he can shake the one the lady is extending to him. “Uh, hi, I'm Stiles. Nice to meet you.”

“Charming,” Derek murmurs and Stiles glares at him. He thinks he's funny.

“What a peculiar name,” the lady says and Stiles nods. The lady's hand is dry and really warm, and she smells like cookies and she's really tiny. Stiles likes her, she looks like someone's grandmother. So he smiles at her, for real, and lets her pat his face the same way she did with Derek. “You look like you could put some meat on your bones, though, honey.”

Stiles grimaces and then half shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I'll make sure to give Derek some more cookies just for you, okay, dear?” Mrs. Jacobs says in a conspiratorial tone, leaning more into Stiles' space. Stiles smiles and nods again.

“Okay, thank you.”

“I really have to go now, Gus doesn't like to be alone for long, but it was really good meeting you, dear,” Mrs. Jacob says, letting go of Stiles' hand. She takes a couple of steps back and waves. Derek waves back a little and Stiles laughs. “Bye.”

“Bye!” Stiles says.

Derek puts his hand in the exact same spot in the middle of Stiles' back and pushes him a little, startling him. “Come on, we need to finish here,” he says in a soft voice and Stiles feels his heart stop and then re-start again. “You'll need some boots, if you want to go outside. I'll buy you a pair, come.”

Stiles frowns a little, trying to understand if Derek really just said “I'll buy you a pair of boots” and, when he looks up from where he was staring at a long line of canned peas and beans and sees that Derek is already vanished, he grumbles to himself and hurries up.

**

Mrs. Jacobs cookies are really good and Stiles just found out Derek drinks _tea_. This is another piece of information he started listing in his head, _things he never knew about Derek Hale: a list_. Derek drinks warm milk with honey and tea instead of coffee. He helps old people with their grocery shopping and also tiny cute ladies give him home baked cookies. He looks more relaxed. He uses gel in his hair only when they have to go out – when he's home his hair is all floppy and kinda long and it touches his eyelashes every time Derek looks up at Stiles suddenly. Not that Stiles is been looking at his eyelashes or his beard or the way blue and green shirts bring out the colors in his eyes. No - and some really good body wash that smells great, like pine needles and, like, forests.

“You don't like coffee?” Stiles asks, grabbing another cookie from the little tin box on the coffee table. He's leaving crumbs everywhere but Derek hasn't complained once, so Stiles is just gonna eat without a care.

Derek shrugs and keeps drinking his tea. Which is still something that doesn't make sense, but whatever, right? Derek keeps throwing Stiles off balance with all those little things, keeps rearranging the idea Stiles had of Derek. Like, seeing Derek with his leather jacket, frowny face and trust issues, you'd think he would be one of those people who drink their coffee black, no cream no sugar, but now – Derek drinks _green tea._ “I do like coffee, I drink it. I like tea more, though.”

Stiles nods, filing this information away and takes a bite of his cookie. “I love coffee, it helps with my meds, but I should always be careful with caffeine intake and sometimes I drink too much and messes me up a little. For how much caffeine helps me usually, I always end up drinking a lot more than I should.”

“So you never tried decaf,” Derek says, bending down to grab one cookie, too. He does like them like Mrs. Jacobs said. It's a little adorable how the crumbs get stuck in his beard. Not that Stiles is looking.

“No?” Stiles replies, making a face. “It tastes all wrong.”

Derek just looks at him, all calm and collected and says, “how can you know that if you never tried it? It tastes exactly the same. You wouldn't know it's decaf if no one told you.”

“Have you tried it?” Stiles replies, pointing a finger at Derek.

“Yes.”

“Then your taste buds must be dead, there's no other explanation,” Stiles says, like the argument is done, ended, he won, everybody go home. He turns back to his cookie and smiles at it.

The only thing Derek does, then, is to grab another cookie and bite into it while staring at Stiles all the while.

The fire crackles behind them and it's all silent.

**

Adjusting to this new life is a little difficult. Not because Derek is overly present or anything, he's actually often outside doing manly things like cutting wood – so cliche – or fixing broken things, like Stiles' Jeep, for example. But. It's a new house, new everything, he just needs a little time to find his bearings, adjust to the beautiful scenery and Derek's softer personality. Once you saw someone wearing flannel pajamas, no amount of leather could ever bring their old charm back.

Stiles spends a lot of time outside, too. Looking at the mountains and trees surrounding the house, being alone for a while, thinking. It helps, a little. Maybe it's the sharp smell of dirt and pine needles, the relaxing sound of the water of the lake moved by the gentle breeze, the chirps of various birds, maybe it's just being away from Beacon Hills, but. Yeah, he feels lighter. Derek never interrupts him or his moments alone, never steps inside the bubble he creates when he gets lost in awful memories and the weight on his shoulders gets a little harder to bear. He never pushes Stiles to talk to him, open up and spill his secrets, never once forced him to eat when he felt that same old knot in his throat getting bigger and harder to swallow. He stays by himself and, for that, Stiles is grateful.

Derek keeps saying that the air is getting crispier and the snow is approaching, so Stiles is sitting by his rock as usual, in front of the lake, this time with a book in hand and his phone in the other. He just shot a text to Scott and told him everything is fine and Derek is actually a pretty good roommate and he's also going to call his father in a moment, but he's instead staring transfixed at a cute little bird hopping on the ground. Stiles isn't even breathing, not to scare the black and white bird away, and he's pretty sure he never saw a bird from up close before. He doesn't know what type it is, the name or anything really, but it's pretty and the way it hops here and there is funny and pretty cute. It's probably looking for food before the storm hits and Stiles doesn't want to interrupt it, so he keeps as still as he can manage and stares at it. He wants to take a picture to send to his dad, but he's not sure he can actually pull it off without scaring the bird away, so he doesn't lift the hand with the phone up.

“You're really pretty,” he says softly to the bird, who ignores him and keeps digging through the pine needles and dirt. “I don't know your name. I'm going to look you up later, I'm really curious.”

The bird turns its little head one way then the other, hops hops hops, then stops at Stiles' feet. Stiles gasps and gapes a little, sits up a little straighter and smiles. It's really small and Stiles' foot looks enormous compared to it.

“Okay, I'm gonna try and take a picture,” he murmurs and unlocks his phone with slow movements, flinching when the click reverberates through the air. The bird stops for a moment and Stiles freezes, ready to see it fly away, but then, surprisingly, it resumes its work and Stiles breathes. He pulls up his camera app and actually snatches a couple of really nice pictures his dad will surely love.

He sends one of the photos to his dad with the caption _I made a friend!!_ and he doesn't really see the bird take off. He hears the distinct sounds of wings and he looks up just in time to see it fly up to a tree branch, white belly still visible from the ground.

“Bye buddy!” Stiles says and he smiles down at his phone when his dad replies.

_Looks nice._

Yeah, it does.

**

“A bird came up real close to me, outside. It was awesome,” he says to Derek when he gets back inside. He hangs the jacket beside the door and throws the scarf up there, too. Derek is cooking something that smells really good, and Stiles goes to see what it is.

“Yeah?” Derek says, stirring something in the pan.

“Yup, I got pictures. Dude, what's that? Smells fantastic.” Stiles replies, leaning in a little to grasp the awesome smell better and Derek shoulders him back. Stiles pretends to pat his injured chest. “Hey!”

“It's just spaghetti with tomato sauce, you sound like it's something you never tried before,” Derek says, with a little smirk on his face. “I just put oregano and chopped onions in it.”

“It's a lot more than I ever did, that's for sure.”

“Set the table,” Derek replies and Stiles starts to grab plates and glasses, but he can see the tiny smile Derek is trying to hide.

 

**

It starts snowing the following day and it all started with a gray sky.

It's the middle of the night and Stiles can't sleep, feels crowded into his own skin and he spent the entirety of the day biting his nails and snapping at Derek, then feeling shitty right after. Derek never snapped back, like Stiles thought he would, he just went along with it and continued doing what he was doing making Stiles feel even shittier for his behavior. It's just that he can't seem to be able to sleep again and the nightmares keep getting worse and worse, so he's cranky and his eyes are dry and hurt, every time he blinks it's like sandpaper. Not even Derek's warm milk is helping him, not even reading or staring at the fire in the fireplace.

So he turned to the window and saw the sky. Gray sky like it wasn't the middle of the night but like, 7 on a normal evening.

“Shit, it's snowing!” he whispers and gets up from the bed, walks to the window and looks outside. The snowflakes are already depositing on the ground and creating a coat of white, painting the scenery. He's so excited to see the snow he forgets his nightmares for a long moment. It's been so long since he saw it, it feels like another lifetime entirely.

He doesn't even decide to grab his jacket, beanie and mittens, he's already outside before he makes the conscious decision to bundle up and step out. The snow makes sharp little noises when he walks through it, when it lands in his hair and his eyelashes, the tip of his shoulders and the fabric of his coat. It's really freezing outside, but kind of peaceful. The light Derek keeps on overnight on the porch illuminates the view and Stiles can see everything perfectly, every single flake that is falling down and the strange color in the sky, dark but light at the same time, the way the time seems frozen and still, not a single noise, just his own breathing and the crunching of his boots in the snow.

He opens his mouth wide and catches the flakes on his tongue, feels them melt as soon as they touch the warmth and he giggles, feeling free and infinitely small. It's like he can sense everything, what's surrounding him and every tree, every house, every body of water and he's small small small, like an ant, and the world is so big, the world is everything and he can breathe.

He opens his arms wide and throws his head back, lets the snow fall on him, chilling him but making him feel something that isn't fear and sorrow after a very long time.

He looks back at the house when he hears the door click open and sees Derek standing there, watching him with a strange expression on his face. He's barefoot and wearing a long sleeved shirt that looks really comfy, but his face is. Confused, maybe. Like he's trying to grasp what Stiles is thinking.

“You should come back inside, you're going to get sick if you stand there under the snow,” he says, his soft voice the only sound for miles and miles. He looks Stiles up and down and then motions at the inside of the house with his head.

Stiles looks back up for a last time, looks at every single snowflake illuminated by the porch light and then walks back, goes inside and lets Derek put his boots near the fireplace to dry and then hands him a towel.

Derek goes back to bed, then, squeezing Stiles' shoulder for a long moment, and Stiles sits back on his bed, book in hand and covers warm around him.

He doesn't sleep a blink, spends the night looking outside and tending to the fire in the fireplace and, for once, he isn't screaming.

**

 Mr. Argent comes to talk to Derek the following day and Stiles learns he lives in the cottage next to Derek's.

It' weird to think that Derek and Mr. Argent live close to each other, that they changed that much and it's really really strange, waking up to the sound of Chris Argent's voice and Derek's laugh in reply.

He'd been napping on the couch after lunch, feeling extremely cozy and relaxed in the warmth of the house and lulled by Derek typing away on his computer, writing an email to Cora in Argentina. He closed his eyes and just went to sleep, only to be roughly jerked awake by the backyard door clicking shut.

He looks up from his spot on the couch and finds himself alone in the house. Derek and Chris are talking outside, under the porch so not to be standing directly under the falling snow. Their voices are hushed, like Derek told Chris to lower his tone because Stiles was sleeping, or something, and Stiles can't really grasp what they're talking about – he can make out a few sentences and words, but not the entire topic. He thinks they're talking about Isaac and what's happening back in Beacon Hills. Derek says something then, and then they both chuckle and Stiles bites his bottom lip because he also want to be in on the joke, wants to hear the reason why they're laughing – strange as it may be, two former enemies standing peacefully under the porch of one of their houses, looking out at the snow covered landscape and laughing.

 Mr. Argent is sporting a beard, too, now and he's wearing a denim jacket with the lapels raised up high against the chilling wind and he looks. Older. He looks astonishingly like his dad, more wrinkled and tired and sad. He looks ashen and his eyes are still strikingly blue, but he's smiling at Derek and talking to him and still going on even after what happened to Allison. Stiles doesn't know how that works, losing a child, but he knows what it means losing a loved one and it's awful, it tears you apart and makes you feel like you have a hole in your life, in your chest. So, seeing Chris Argent like that makes Stiles miss Allison a lot more, her absence flaring like a fire under his skin, in his veins – he thinks _Allison is not here anymore, Allison is not here anymore, Allison is not here anymore._

He looks at them one last time, than he lies back on the couch and tries to go back to sleep.

**

He's in the woods and his breath is forming clouds in the night air. He's freezing in the thin t-shirt he's wearing and he's not really sure where he is, the trees look all the same and the ground is covered in fallen leaves, squelching a little under his toes. He's barefoot and the earth is cold and wet under the soles of his feet.

He turns around to see if he can understand where he is, or where he could go, but it's dark and the only source of light is the pale moon, little silvery rays of light filtering though the vegetation and making the forest seem even more creepy and horror-like. It's like standing in the middle of a set of a film.

He knows he's in the woods surrounding Beacon Hills and he knows, he just knows, that there's something wrong about this. It's like a little feeling running through his veins, that makes his hands all jittery-like and his heart beat double speed. He knows something is looking out for him and he also knows he should run, but his feet are rooted to the spot and he can't move.

He hears a crack behind his back and a rustle trough the tree branches above him. He looks up and _Allison_ is standing there, arrow aimed at him. Her hands are strong and firm on her bow, her jaw set and eyes dark and catlike. He knows she won't miss a beat, that she would hit him without a struggle if she wanted and he feels like prey.

“Don't move,” she says, voice cold and stern and he doesn't.

He raises both his hands in surrender but he doesn't move. He still can't. And he's not sure he wants to try and find out if he can now, not with an arrow poised on him.

“Allison,” he murmurs, not sure what he's going to tell her, but his eyes sting and he just wants to talk to her, see if he can change her mind. “What's going on?”

She seems to contemplate responding to him, her grip on her bow seems to slacken an inch, and Stiles foolishly takes a relieved breath. Then she jumps down from the branch and lands right in front of him, still hard as a statue, face void of any emotion. She looks stunningly beautiful in the pale light but also terrifying, unforgiving, and Stiles knows that face, that look in her eyes. He saw it before.

She points her bow back on him and Stiles is sure he's going to get an arrow in his chest before this is over.

“This is all your fault,” she says, and her voice wavers a little, she smiles bitterly at him, with her dimples and long eyelashes, but then her face goes back to stone and anger. “ _You_ are the problem.”

Stiles knows, in a way, that this is a dream. He knows, strangely, that this is not real, in that way you always know in a dream, sometimes. He wants to wake up and stop seeing Allison like this, like the warrior, the cold scary woman he knew once. He wants to remember her like the laughing, cute, Disney princess she was, with her dimpled smile and the way her hair always smelled good.

“I'm really sorry, Ally, you know I am. If I could go back in time, it wouldn't have happened. Any of this.”

“My dad is all alone because of you, now. Scott is suffering because of you, Lydia,” she says, and her eyes are sparkling in the dark, like she's going to cry and he can't stand it.

“I know!” he says, opens his arms to convey how much he really knows, and he's aware that he ruined a lot of things and people and Allison died because of him. “I know, Allison. If I could've prevented it, I would have! You know I love you, we're friends and I don't know how to make this better. Make this right.”

“I'm going to kill you, now,” she cries, softly, aims the arrow back to the middle of his chest and Stiles can hear the stretch of the bowstring being pulled and he feels his blood surge through his veins, insanely scared for a long moment.

“You don't have to, but if you want,” he replies and looks at her one last time, tries to let her know that he's sorry and he misses her, with his eyes.

She sniffles and then her whole demeanor changes, she turns back to stone and cutting, unforgiving and hard. She takes a deep breath and then.

Stiles startles the same way she does. He doesn't know what's happening until it's already too late to do something about it. She's looking right back at him with huge eyes and he's finding it hard to breathe.

“No!” he shouts, when he sees the edge of a sword cutting through her stomach from behind. He reaches out to help her but he can't even reach her, she's too far away. “Allison!”

For a long moment, Stiles can't think, can't breathe, can't do anything but look at Allison and the sword in her belly. She's bleeding from the mouth and she's so pale in the dark, so pale, the blood looks black in the darkness. She's making these soft sounds that Stiles almost can't hear and then she's slowly crumbling down to her knees, still looking at Stiles shocked and frightened.

That's when he sees.

He's standing right behind Allison, with the bleeding sword still in his bored grasp. He's gray faced, with bruises under his eyes and a cold smirk on his lips and Stiles almost can't recognize himself. But it's _him_.

“Goodbye Allison,” other him says and his voice sounds distorted, gritty and over-used.

“No no no no!”

**

Stiles gasps and wakes up suddenly, panting and drenched in cold sweat. His heart is beating a mile a second and his vision is swimming, he feels like he's gonna hurl and he bends over the edge of the bed to cough and try to get his breathing back. He feels like shit, literally. Tonight the nightmare was too bad, he can't get the shaky feeling out of his bones. Seeing Allison like that was too much, all the guilt that came with the knowledge of one of best friends being dead because of him is washing over him again like a wave. He feels jittery and all over the place, like his blood is itching through his veins and his hands can't even grip the covers properly, they keep slipping through his sweaty hold.

He lays back against the pillow and tries to calm down enough to just close his eyes, breathe normally, stop the buzzing in his brain. It's like he's on fire inside, like his head is going to explode but at the same time, he's always so so cold. He sweats every time he has a bad nightmare, his body going a mile a minute, getting heated up from the inside, but then he wakes up and he's _freezing_. Genuinely feels like he's in the middle of the storm outside.

He's able to actually calm his breathing enough to tell Derek isn't awake – or, if he is, he's not going to come down and make Stiles a cup of milk. Stiles misses it a little, misses the way Derek can be so understanding and kind in those moments, a Derek Stiles began to associate with warm smiles and flannel pajamas, so different from the dark hard edges back in Beacon Hills. He's still freezing, though. Even in front of the fading fire, he can't get warm enough. Never enough.

He grips the covers and cocoons himself in them, tries to shrink himself under them, bends his knees against his chest and he's still shivering. The snow outside is still coming down in big fluffy flakes, Stiles can see them from the little hole in the wooden shutters, the sky gray and not deepest black. It's all silent, just the creaking of the fire and the little noise you always think you hear when it's snowing, his own ragged breathing. If he looks through the covers to the flames, he can only see shadows of orange-y colors, moving and unreachable and he thinks of people dying and liking it, being in control and shouting, always so cold but so powerful.

Stiles can't stand to be alone in that bed a minute longer; he gets up and scratches at his face with blunt bitten nails, feels little cuts forming on his cheeks from them but can't get himself to actually care. He walks to the bathroom and stands in front of the mirror for long minutes, just staring at his skinny knobby fingers and ashen skin. He looks positively awful – red rimmed eyes and pale lips. It's like being possessed all over again. Like he looked in the dream. Stiles feels sickly and doesn't know what to do so he just keeps shivering and staring at the sorry image in the mirror.

He sighs and lowers his eyes. He doesn't want to go back to bed, he knows he won't be able to actually go back to sleep or even read one of Derek's ridiculous books. Even staring at the fire brings him to think about desperation and death – everything is a trap, because his mind is playing tricks on him, just like the Nogitsune used to. He just wants to black out for a while, disappear until he gets better, until he can sleep for eight hours straight and eat like a normal person and mock Derek for the way he does his grocery shopping or how his plaid shirts look with his beard. But, right about now, he can only stare at him and pretend he's still functioning like a semi-normal human being.

His clothes are still wet with sweat and are getting colder and colder as the time passes, so he grunts an annoyed breath and starts shedding them away, throws them angrily to the floor like they personally offended him and then looks over at the other side of the room, at the bathtub. It's been ages since he last took a bath, just because he wanted. Derek is obviously one of those people who have both a huge shower and an even huger bathtub, like they need both in their lives to actually go on. But Stiles is pretty glad Derek is one of those people, because he really needs a bath right about now. He needs to turn the water scalding, so hot his skin will turn pink and not ashen gray, soaking through his bones, cleaning him, warming him up from his hair to the tips of his toes.

He decides to put Derek's body wash in the water, the one that smells like the forest, just because he finds the scent soothing, and waits for the tub to be filled with bubbles.

When he gets in, he shivers in satisfaction – it's so good, the water is so warm, almost too hot, and he feels his muscles loosen. He sighs and lays back, closes his eyes, breathes deeply for the first time in a while. The bubbles feel good against his skin, and he toys with them with his fingers, smiles a little remembering his parents giving him bubble baths when he was little. He didn't dream of his mom again, not after the first day of this trip and he misses her like she left two days ago, and not years ago – it's always the same pattern; he dreams of her, he gets to remember those little details he forgot with time, and then he gets to relive it again and again; the pain and the sadness and the grieving part. Maybe, logically, it will get better when he's older, when he's had more time to get used to it, or maybe it will always hurt thinking about her, maybe it's worse now because he feels so scrambled into himself, like he doesn't have a grip on his emotions – he doesn't know. Time won't make it better, but it'll numb him enough to go on without feeling like he's on the verge of crying every time he thinks of the colors in his mother's hair. 

Maybe, one day, he'll be able to think about Allison without feeling her blood on his hands. 

He lets his hands and arms float in the water and breathes. Then promptly falls asleep. 

** 

He jerks awake after what feels like two seconds, but he can't really breathe. He coughs and coughs and his lungs burn, his chest feels like it's filled with acid and he doubles over, gasps an awful breath in. He doesn't seem to be able to open his eyes, they're filled with tears and he keeps coughing.  
  
“Fuck,” he hears behind him, and he startles a little, surprised. Then he feels an arm around his waist and he finally understands, he's leaning against Derek's grip and he's staying upright thanks to him. He's standing in the middle of the tub, his feet and calves still immersed in water and the rest of his body freezing in the cold air, skin wet and goosebumpseverywhere. “You're okay, come on, Stiles. Let's get out of here,” Derek says, voice soft and a little rough. He pulls Stiles more firmly against his chest and levers him up the best he can with Stiles non-cooperating, but he finally can put his feet back on the floor, can take the first deep breath that doesn't sound like a rattling. Derek pushes him a little towards the toilet and sits him there, Stiles still in a daze, uncomprehending. He blinks a couple of times to get his vision back, and he realizes he's shivering and his teeth are chattering. Then a warmth spreads through his body when Derek covers him with a huge towel.

There's an awful taste in his mouth, bitter and foreign, and he understands it's the taste of Derek's body wash only when he can smell the pine needles in it. He looks down at Derek's face so close to his own and he doesn't really know what happened, but he knows he's naked in front of Derek and that's not something he ever thought happening.

“I...” Stiles starts, but then doesn't know how to finish the sentence. He just curls a little more in on himself and tries to cover his private parts the best he can.

Derek notices and sighs, “I don't care seeing you naked, Stiles.”

Stiles makes a face and feels his cheeks heat up, hides his face into the soft yellow towel but doesn't stop Derek from drying his hair.

“ _I_ care.”

“You fell asleep in the tub,” Derek murmurs, making Stiles look up at him. “I thought you died in here, your heartbeat was so slow I almost couldn't hear it.”

“Oh,” he says, because he doesn't really remember falling asleep. He just. He remembers getting in, feeling better that he did in a long time, the water warm around him and then. He maybe closed his eyes for a moment. “I'm sorry?”

Derek rolls his eyes, but Stiles can see he's still worried. It's not an expression he's used seeing on Derek's face. It's weird, makes him feel even worse than he thought possible, especially when he thinks he almost drowned.

“Just,” Derek says, getting up. “Don't fall asleep again while you're having a bath.”

“Yeah,” Stiles whispers. He still feels like he's not completely awake, everything is hazy and out of focus. It's weird. He keeps blinking but the soft cover over his sight doesn't budge. His muscles feel like putty and he could probably just go back to sleep right there sitting on the toilet. He plans on doing just that, when he feels Derek's hand gripping him. He makes a surprised noise, but lets Derek guide him out of the bathroom then across the hall and the living room. He expects him to drop him on his bed, but Derek steers him away from the fireplace and unmade bed and helps him go up the little stairs until they reach Derek's bed. 

“Sit,” Derek tells him. Stiles does as told and almost falls sideways against the pillows, but then Derek is back with a pair of pajama pants and a t-shirt. Stiles moans in displeasure and closes his eyes. “Really?” he hears Derek say, but then he's huffing and forcing Stiles into the clothes. Stiles would feel bad for it, if he only could keep his eyes open. For now he only starfishes on the bed and lets Derek do all the work. 

“Pillow,” he grumbles when he feels Derek get back into bed, the covers rustling all around him and the mattress moving with the added weight. 

Derek sighs but gets up again. His footsteps echo in the silence of the house and Stiles can hear him on the stairs, then the living room, then coming back. He smiles a little at him when Derek is throwing the pillow at Stiles' face, climbing back through the covers, huffing annoyed. 

“Thanks,” Stiles whispers, head on his pillow and warmth all around him, Derek's soft breathing a few inches from him. This feels good. 

“Shut up, go to sleep.” 

And he does.

** 

When he wakes up again, the sun is shining through the shutters and he feels well rested. A little sore, like after a good long night sleep and he smiles when he stretches languidly in the sheets.

He gets up slowly and he realizes where he is only when he's opening his eyes for real and he sees he's on the second floor. Derek's bedroom. He slept in Derek's bed last night, with Derek beside him. He blushes a little, but he can't help but feel good about it – it's been the best sleep he's had in three months. If he only could forget the almost drowning and Derek finding him in the tub and the fact that Derek also saw him naked. Stiles can totally pretend that never happened. Yes. 

When he gets down, Derek is nowhere to be seen. Stiles looks around, to see if he can spot Derek somewhere, but he's all alone in the house. He could make himself breakfast, but he's not really sure if he's hungry or not. He wonders if Derek ate, also what time it is. His phone is lying forgotten on the coffee table near the made up couch, so he grabs it and finds his dad called him a couple of hours ago before he started his shift at the station, and he finds out it's almost ten. It's not too late, but it feels like he slept in and he can't help but smile a little. He should call his dad back, but he wants to find Derek first, thank him for what he did last night, and probably apologize for scaring him so much he felt like he had to sleep in the same bed as Stiles. He probably thought Stiles was going to find another way to kill himself if he left him alone for another minute.

Not that Stiles wouldn't be able to.

He then hears faint voices coming from outside and he looks up, sees the glass door that leads to the back and then, outside, Derek is shoveling snow and talking to Mr. Argent. They are both dressed in dark clothing and the sun reflects against the white of the snow, and Stiles thinks of his nightmare, of seeing Allison that way, looking at Chris – feels the pang of guilt and worry and grief in his chest, every time the same cycle that will never stop. There will be times when he will find something or someone that will make him think of Allison, and he will feel the same pang over and over again. It still happens with his mom.

He looks back down at his phone and decides he's going to make breakfast for two, Derek will probably be hungry after all the hard work. 

** 

“Hey,” Derek says, when he comes back inside. He's all pink cheeked and is smiling warmly at Stiles, and Stiles almost loses his grip on the pan he's using to make bacon and eggs. 

“Hi,” he says back, turning back to the stove. He can't really look at Derek right now, he doesn't know if he's feeling the effects of the previous night or if the sun is shining too bright through the windows. “I'm making breakfast, I thought you'd want some so I made it for two.”

“Thanks,” Derek tells him, touches his back faintly when he passes to grab plates and silverware. Stiles bites his lip. “I am a little hungry.”

They eat in silence and it's not really awkward anymore, it's been a couple of weeks and Stiles is getting used to Derek. He's not bad, he eats calmly and neatly – never makes a mess, always tidies up after himself and, for someone who used to live in the shell of his childhood house and, for a while, in an abandoned warehouse, well. He's really really clean. Stiles is used to just leave a mess wherever he goes – books, plates, glasses, pieces of food, anything really; but Derek washes the plates in the sink, dries them, makes his own bed, just this morning he made Stiles' too, he vacuums, for God's sake. Stiles should maybe help. Or, at least, try not to make such a mess every time he eats something or takes a shower? Yeah, probably.

So, when Derek gets up to walk to the sink, Stiles gets up, too, and follows him. Derek raises an eyebrow and then frowns, when he sees Stiles grab the dishtowel lying on the counter.

“I wanna help,” Stiles murmurs, doesn't look up at Derek's pale eyes, shrugs like it's no big deal.

Derek doesn't say anything, just fills the sink with water and soap and then starts washing everything methodically. Stiles stares at his hands, the way they grip the plates gently and turn them around to wash every corner, then rinses them with clean water. Derek has nice hands, Stiles thinks. They're big and with long fingers. Nice veins, too.

Uh. He scrambles to hold the plate Derek just handed to him, embarrassed and blushing. He doesn't want to think about Derek's hands. Or Derek's anything, really. He busies himself with the other items they just washed and he keeps his mouth shut. Probably better.

“Thanks,” Derek says, softly. 

Stiles looks at him, a little surprised, and then smiles. “Thank you for last night.”

Derek nods and doesn't say anything else, so Stiles goes back to the pan in his hands. But he feels Derek moving closer to him and he smiles a little more.

**

That night, Derek makes Stiles some milk with honey in it and then touches the back of his neck, before he goes to bed.

Stiles tries to sleep, closes his eyes and pulls the covers up to his chin and really really tries. But the memory of last night's dream is still too fresh in his head, too hard to swallow, and he keeps opening his eyes to look at the fire crackling a few feet from the bed. Derek started to make it only for Stiles, said he trusted Stiles to tend to it – and Stiles does, gets up in the middle of the night to open the little door and put another piece of wood in the dying flames, or just to smother it when he doesn't want to relive it again – and it means a lot that Derek can go to sleep knowing there's a fire going on in his living room.

He could find something to do, but he's positively done with all the books he read, and he doesn't want to bother Derek for his computer. So he just stands there, looking up at the ceiling and the fire in turns. Maybe, if he gets really bored, he'll fall asleep.

He looks up when he hears Derek's soft steps on the wooden floor and he finds him getting down the stair. He's wearing a white shirt tonight, black sweatpants and his hair is all ruffled and cute.

Stiles opens his mouth to tell him he looks positively adorable, just to be a little shit, when Derek walks up to him and grabs one of his wrists under the covers.

“Wha-?” Stiles yelps, and gets up before Derek all but drags him out of bed. He hops on one foot when he can't get out fast enough. “What even? Derek?”

“You keep moving and it's driving me insane.”

Stiles has to follow him up the stairs, Derek still pulling him by the wrist and he almost brains himself on one of the steps. Luckily Derek has really good fast reflexes and saves him from a nosebleed, and then pushes Stiles on his bed, throws Stiles' pillow at him.

“Get in and sleep.”

Stiles looks down at his pillow in his hands and then, without commenting on it, he gets under the covers and lies down, silently. He's acutely aware of every single movement Derek's making, the way the mattress jostles and the covers rustle, his soft breath and the way he smells minty and good.

The darkness doesn't really feel oppressing, some little glimmer of light is filtering through the window to the left of the bed, the moonlight, and he really doesn't startle when Derek puts one of his hands on Stiles chest and just leaves it there.

He doesn't close his eyes immediately, he just stands there and listens to Derek's breathing turn shallower and shallower and then, he follows. The weight of Derek's hand comforting over his heart.

**

Stiles wakes up sometime in the middle of the night, not screaming, but just because he felt Derek move, and he finds himself enveloped in his arms. He looks down at Derek's strong hands, one on his belly and the other on his chest, and kinda. Smiles.

He goes back to sleep feeling safe. 

** 

The days in Derek's house pass slowly and Stiles doesn't remember the last time he read so many books for fun. Derek still doesn't own a TV and Stiles doesn't know how he's still a functioning member of society. But then, it's Derek, so he can't actually say he is. Derek told him that if he wanted to use his computer, he could, but Stiles is just in a mood for something else.

Derek has so many books, even Stiles was surprised. He has interesting books, he has books on folklore and myths, then he has books Stiles pretends don't exist at all. He's perusing the shelves for the millionth time since he came here and he finds a battered copy of The Little Prince, and he stops for a moment. He looks at it for a little while, at the drawings and the dog ears in the corners of the pages, it feels like it's been read and read over and over, like Derek spent hours and hours going through it.

He remembers reading it when he was little and thinking it was a really sad story, he didn't really like it because he didn't want it to end so badly. But now.

He reads a few pages and then closes it, puts it back on the shelf, grabs the one right beside even if he doesn't know what is. He just doesn't want to picture Derek re-reading the same book, maybe in bed, maybe on the sofa, maybe falling asleep with a finger through the pages so not to lose his place.

He groans out loud and he falls face first on the couch, bored out of his mind. Ugh, he can only read so much before he feels like he's going mad. Derek is also always doing something outside like cutting wood, or shoveling snow or helping the elderly. Stiles is sure every single woman in this town loves Derek – he saw what happens when Derek goes grocery shopping. Maybe Derek volunteers at the local shelter and washes dogs for free and pets kittens, for all that Stiles knows.

Still, he's bored.

That's how he finds himself in a huge coat and warm sweater and wearing the boots Derek bought him. The boots are a little uncomfortable but very warm, and he's grateful Derek told him he would've needed them in the snow, when he gets out and the freezing air cuts his face. Wow, talking about cold. The snow is falling down lazily and slowly, tiny flakes that melt as soon as they touch his skin. The woods behind the house look huge and white, from where he is standing. The snow is swallowing the trees and it looks like a postcard, the kind you can find at Christmas, with candles on it and glitters and Santa riding his sleigh in the sky. The place is amazing, so pretty and peaceful, Stiles didn't expect to like it so much, didn't know he craved for something like this, huge spaces and the sharp smell of pure air, mountains. The only sounds around him are the snow falling down from branches, when it gets too heavy, and Derek shoveling snow off the roof. He's perched on a ladder and the jacket he's wearing is too short, riding high on his back, a sliver of skin peeking out from underneath. Stiles swallows and then breathes shakily.

“Aren't you cold?” he says to Derek, who just looks down at him and then goes back to work. He shrugs.

“A little, but werewolves run hotter than humans.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and gets closer to the ladder, looks up at what Derek is doing. “Yes, well, but it's still pretty chilly.”

“It's freezing, but I'm fine, I'm moving,” Derek says, taking another step on the ladder to get higher, bends over a little so he can reach another spot on the roof. Stiles doesn't stare at his ass. He turns back to the trees, looks over to the mountains he can see behind them. It really looks like one of those Christmas postcards his Mom used to collect – she loved Christmas, was her favorite holiday, used to fill the house with decorations and lights and garlands and their tree was always beautiful. His mom used to put so much love in everything she did, but when it was Christmas she just. She really loved it. And Stiles misses all that, the tree and the lights and the atmosphere.

“Derek?”

“Hm,” Derek replies, behind him.

“Do you think we could do something for Christmas?” he asks, softly, because he doesn't know if Derek even wants him to stay longer. He told him he would stay for a few days and it's already been more than two weeks. Derek doesn't really seem to mind. Not even when Stiles screams in the middle of the night and Derek comes down to guide him to bed with him, so he can curl up around him and make him feel safer. They don't talk about it, but it's been happening.

“Something like what?”

Stiles finally looks back at him and sighs, shrugs. “Decorate? I miss Christmas, is all. Like, my mom used to be really into the whole decorating and stuff, lights everywhere, candles and you know, a big tree in the corner. I just. Want to do something?”

Derek stops working to stare at him for a long moment, and Stiles knows he's going to say no, he'll also probably tell him he should go home and celebrate Christmas with his Dad, but. Then Derek slowly gets down and says, “Okay,” like it's no big deal.

Stiles gapes at him, shocked. “What, wait, for real?”

Derek rolls his eyes and turns back to get back inside, leaving Stiles behind.

“I don't have anything, we need to buy things,” he says, taking his jacket off. Stiles continues staring at him, seeming at a loss for words. He still can't believe Derek said yes.

“I'm,” Stiles starts, then looks down at his hands, in the mittens his dad bought him before he left, the boots Derek bought him that day in town. His eyes sting. “Just. Thanks.”

Derek says, “no problem,” and puts a hand on the back of Stiles' neck and Stiles flushes.

**

Derek tells him they're going out to buy what they need to decorate the house after he takes a shower, and Stiles goes back outside so he can call his dad, tell him he's staying with Derek longer. He feels vaguely guilty leaving his dad alone on Christmas, but they never really spend it together since his mom died – they both are too sad to actually celebrate and his dad usually ends up working someone else's shift and Stiles ends up watching Christmas movies on Scott's couch. So, this year, he's going to spend it with Derek. He doesn't know how he used to spend Christmas when he wasn't alone, probably eating and laughing with his family, exchanging presents and being happy, Stiles thinks.

He walks through the snow until he reaches the little lake he's starting to think as his. A thick sheet of ice is covering the surface, everything is white instead of brown, green, dark blue. He wonders if he could skate on it. Maybe, the ice looks sturdy enough. He doesn't think Derek would let him, though.

He sits on a rock under a huge tree, he has to forgo his usual sitting place, and he looks at the scenery in front of him, dials his dad's number and waits for him to pick up the phone. He feels strangely calm; a little chilly but calm.

“Hello, son,” his dad greets and Stiles smiles.

“Hey dad, how are you?”

“Fine,” the Sheriff says, clears his throat. “And you? Are you sleeping?”

Stiles blushes faintly and scratches the tip of his cold nose, looks down like his dad could see him and find out why he is blushing in the first place.

“Yeah, I'm feeling better,” he says, a little truth in the lie. He does feel better, he's not okay, not really, but better. “I'm sleeping more, eating. It's really pretty here, dad, you should see it. Looks like a postcard. It's snowing a lot and it looks almost magical.”

“I'm glad, son. Really. Say thanks to Derek for me, yeah?”

Stiles snorts. “Like you don't call each other every other day.”

“You still tell him,” his dad replies, a sigh in his voice. Stiles smiles. “When are you coming back?”

Stiles bites his lower lip and shuffles his feet in the snow, moving it a little here and there. “Actually, dad, I wanted to tell you that I want to stay here for Christmas. We never really spend it together and Derek is alone, too. So. We're decorating the house.”

His dad sighs a little and then says, “Is Derek okay with this?”

“He said yes.”

“I don't know, son, you shouldn't impose.”

Stiles frowns, looks back at the house at his back and then makes himself a little smaller.

“He would tell me if he didn't want me anymore, I'm not-” he runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I'm doing better here with him, he's good. He's helping. I just. I don't want to impose, I told him. And he said he would tell me if I ever got in his way. He didn't.”

“Okay,” his dad says.

“I just don't want to spend Christmas alone, and I don't want him to spend it alone, either.”

“Yeah, okay, if he's all right with it, then okay.”

“I don't want to think he's letting me stay here because he pities me.”

“I'm sure he doesn't, Stiles. I just thought it's been a while since you left.”

Stiles closes his eyes and sighs. “Yeah,” he whispers, and the air is almost too cold now, he wants to go back inside, but he's not sure if he can look Derek in the eyes after this call. Maybe his dad is right and Derek is letting him stay here even if he doesn't want to. Maybe Stiles is in the way and ruining Derek's life but still Derek isn't complaining. “Look, we're going out, I have to go.”

“Yeah. Call me again, okay son?”

“Sure. Bye, dad.”

“Bye.”

Stiles hangs up and then sighs deeply, elbows on his knees, looks out at the lake and mountains, the snow that's falling harder now, will probably get even worse later. He likes it here, more than he likes Beacon Hills. Derek is surprisingly good and never pushes Stiles for anything, doesn't make him eat when he doesn't want to, doesn't make him talk about his nightmares or what he sees when he stares at the fireplace, holds him during the nights when he's screaming and crying.

When he gets back inside, cheeks itching from the cold, Derek is drinking from a steaming mug and looking right at him. Stiles looks down and closes the door behind his back, slowly and silently.

“You know you're not a burden, right? If you want to stay here, I don't mind. I like the company,” Derek says and Stiles shrugs, bites at his cheek to keep from saying stupid things. What Derek just said, it's not exactly saying he wants Stiles there. He doesn't _mind_. “Stiles.”

Stiles still doesn't look up, walks stilted towards the couch, leaves his phone on the coffee table when he gets there, sits down on the right corner then shrinks himself to occupy a sliver of space and no more than that.

He hears Derek walk through the room and then sit down on the table in front of him, reaches out to grip his chin with gentle fingers, makes him look up.

“Okay?”

Stiles nods, but doesn't say anything. He feels like crying and doesn't really know why. He just. His eyes sting and he blinks rapidly, to avoid tears. Derek is stupidly handsome and kind, his hand is dry and warm, he smells good, and his eyes are a nice shade of pale green, hazel, turquoise. Stiles bites his lip and nods again, the familiar sensation of burning through his nose, wet tears in his eyes, he just wants to cry and then he doesn't.

“Hey,” Derek whispers. When the first tear drops from the corner of his right eye, he shuffles forward, surprised. “Why are you crying?”

Stiles doesn't know, so he shrugs, still biting at his lip.

“I just.” His voice sounds gritty and shaky, he feels shitty for what he's going through right now, for making Derek do something he doesn't want to, he should grab his things and leave. Free Derek from his presence. “You don't want me here, so I just. I should go home. 

“I want you here,” Derek says, brushes his thumb over Stiles' cheek, catches a tear. “I'd tell you if I didn't.”

Stiles shakes his head a little, but he can't really do it with Derek's hands holding his face.

“Like, I know you pity me because I'm a mess right now, it's not like, like, you're just going to tell me I'm a burden. I know I am, you can't even sleep through the night without me screaming or trying to kill myself or something. I'm. Sorry. I'll leave.”

“Stiles, shut up,” Derek says, dries Stiles' cheeks with both his hands and then grabs his face again. “You're getting better. And I don't care if you wake me up, I care you're having nightmares and can't seem to eat properly and you are just going through a lot. You're not a burden. I want to help because I want to help _you_. So, now, take a deep breath and stop crying. We're going out.”

Stiles looks at him for a long moment, sniffs a little when Derek gets up and then wipes his eyes with his mittens. He realizes he didn't even take his jacket off when he got back inside. He huffs a laugh at that, and Derek looks back at him with a small smile.

“Okay,” Stiles says and then breathes deeply, gets up from the couch and follows Derek to the front door.

“C'mon,” Derek says, puts a hand on the nape of Stile's neck to push him out gently.

**

There's a mall just outside town. It's pretty big and the parking lot is almost full and white with snow. Derek and his ridiculous truck find a spot not too far from one of the sliding doors and Stiles is grateful, because he doesn't really want to walk a lot under the oncoming snow.

Inside there's cheerful Christmas music playing and the shops are all decorated with little lights, garlands and fake snow. There's a warmth to it that Stiles always loved – not really the idea of Christmas, the gifts and being nicer than usual, but it's like everything is brighter and better when it's Christmas. He loves the smell of peppermint and wood, cinnamon and sugary sweet; loves the way people smile more and the cheesy music; loves remembering his mom surrounded by things she loved, too.

He smiles at Derek and finds the other looking back at him, a soft smile on his lips.

“What?” he asks, surprised. He touches his face, confused. “Do I have something on my face? Is it snot?!”

Derek shakes his head and huffs a laugh, making Stiles gape at him in shock at the sound. “No, you just look happy. I'm glad.”

Stiles makes a face and shrugs, turns back to stare at a shop window where a gorgeous Christmas tree is on display. He really likes the little details they added to it, he'd like a tree like that at home. Says so to Derek, too. “Hey, something like this would look cool at home, maybe near the door in the living room. Or the corner beside the bookcase. I like the gold lights.”

Derek is silent for a long while, so long that Stiles looks back at him, thinks he maybe said too much, or Derek doesn't like it, or Christmas trees in general. But Derek is just looking at him with big eyes, tight lipped. Then he says, “yeah, I like this one. You want to look inside?”

And Stiles thinks nothing of it, says yes and follows him inside the shop.

**

“Hey, how was Christmas for you when you were little?” Stiles asks, while he's deciding which color he likes more for the lights they'll put on their tree. He's torn between white, gold and multicolored. Derek is simply letting him do everything alone, but Stiles really needs a second opinion here. This is an important matter. “Which one do you like better? Maybe multicolor is too much.”

“It's just lights, Stiles. I like the other ones, though, I don't really care,” Derek says, sighing like this is the worst thing that ever happened to him. Stiles glowers at him. “Pick one and let's go find something else. You liked the gold ones on the tree on display.”

Stiles nods. “I did,” he says simply, “but it's your tree, too. I just want to make sure you won't hate it.”

Derek gets impossibly close to him and Stiles stops breathing, but Derek just reaches around him to pick the gold lights up, his face so _close_ to Stiles', and puts them in the basket Stiles half filled with decorations. “There. Now, let's move somewhere else, it's been twenty minutes of flickering lights and my eyes hurt.”

“I. Yes, yes, sure. Let's go.”

After having picked up another six sets of lights - “Where are you gonna put all those lights?” Derek asked -, a few more decorations and a ridiculous wooden reindeer they exit the shop with three bags and Stiles is excited, can't wait to see the tree they're gonna pick out and adorn it, make their home more festive with lights and candles and garlands and the ugly reindeer. He smiles and buys himself and Derek a hot chocolate with marshmallows, just because he wants to be a little shit and thank Derek for what he's doing for him. And Stiles knows Derek doesn't really drink hot chocolate, but he does it because he can't actually say thank you again, not after the lame show he did at home with the tears and the snot and the fucking feelings. It's already too much as it is.

Derek raises an eyebrow at him and takes the cup with an unimpressed gaze. Stiles snickers.

“I thought I said coffee.”

“Yes, you did,” Stiles replies and sits down in front of Derek, kicks his foot under the table. Derek retaliates with another vicious kick that makes Stiles jump and laugh, startled.

“I'm not drinking marshmallows,” Derek peers inside the cup and makes a disgusted face. “What even are these? It looks like there are a hundred little Grinch faces screaming at me.”

“You don't drink candy, you eat it,” Stiles says, laughing at Derek's reference. “It's good.”

“No, it's not.”

“Whatever, suit yourself. You never had candy in your hot chocolate when you were a kid? Can you even _eat_ chocolate?”

Derek levers him with a look that could incinerate people, but luckily Stiles is immune to it these days. He just snorts and kicks Derek again.  
  
“Stop it!” Derek growls, “I don't like chocolate. I used to drink sweet milk as a kid, sometimes my mom put cinnamon in it. It was good.”

Stiles smiles at him and nods. “Yeah.”

“I loved Christmas, when I was younger. My sisters hated it, though,” Derek laughs softly and looks back at his cup, a faraway look in his eyes. Stiles stops drinking and listens intently.

“Why?”

“Because my birthday is on Christmas and I used to get double the presents. They used to get _so_ pissed at me for that. I loved it. I had two presents from everyone, every year.”

Stiles exclaims, “No way, for real?” gaping at Derek, shocked. “Dude, that's so cool! I thought your birthday was in November.”

Derek looks at him sideways but replies, “no, the date on my driving license is fake,” doesn't even ask how Stiles knows about his personal info. He grips the cup in his right hand and plays with it, takes a sip and grimaces at the taste. Stiles laughs. “I really hate this.”

“I could buy you milk with cinnamon in it, if you want. I was just being a little shit.”

Derek rolls his eyes like Stiles is the bane of his existence. “And here I thought you were just being cute.”

Stiles doesn't choke on his drink, but it's a close thing. He feels himself flush a little, and clears his throat, embarrassed.

Then realizes something.

“You're a Christmas baby!” almost shouts, pointing a finger at Derek. “Werewolf Jesus?”

Derek grunts out loud and throws his head back.

**

Derek tells Stiles there's a place that sells real trees and they're gonna stop there to find the right one. Stiles is shaking with anticipation in the passenger seat and Derek is indulging his good mood with unimpressed gazes and a calm demeanor.

When they get there, Stiles jumps out the vehicle and waits for Derek to join him before he turns to the trees on display. He doesn't really know what he wants, he never really bought a Christmas tree before, but he's pretty sure Derek knows something. Like, how big should it be?

“That one!” Stiles says, pointing at one big tree in the corner. It's all dark green and pretty and it would look good decorated in pretty lights and glittery angels.

“No, Stiles,” Derek remarks and leaves Stiles to go in search for another tree.

“Why not? It's not too tall.”

Derek is studying another one a few feet from the one Stiles liked, so Stiles just goes up to him and studies it, too. It's pretty, yes, but a lot smaller than the one he liked.

“It's too big, it won't fit through the door. This one,” he says, hands in his pockets and the aura of someone who really knows what he's doing. Okay, Stiles can totally see the flaws in his plan.

“It's cute,” he concedes, really looks at the tree and then nods. “Okay.”

Derek waves the salesperson over and Stiles is really glad they got it over so soon because he can't wait to put some decorations up, feel the Christmas atmosphere all around him, be a little closer to his mom.

**

Stiles wants to say thank you, back in the truck, wants to tell Derek what it means for him to just being able to do this again, wants to tell him that since he's got here in Montana with him, things got marginally better. That even though he still has trouble sleeping through the night, it's been a little easier to actually fall asleep with Derek by his side.

He wants to tell him that he feels warmer, now, that his body doesn't hurt as much. That, maybe, sometimes his chest flutters when he looks up at him and he doesn't know why. Or, maybe, Stiles knows and it's been happening since the first time they met but a lot more frequently lately. Like a little bird fluttering its wings against his ribcage.

But he doesn't. He just looks at Derek from the corner of his eye, the sure way he drives through the snow covered streets and smiles a little to himself.

He softly touches the back of Derek's hand, a feather sudden touch, and then turns back to the window.

Derek doesn't say anything, but Stiles feels a little warmer anyway.

**

“My mom loved these things, you don't even know,” Stiles says, while he's putting crystal balls up on the lower branches. He already put the lights on and they're happily flickering, lighting up the entire tree and it already looks festive. Derek's been unpacking decorations since Stiles's the one putting them up and he looks up at him from the floor.

“Yeah?” he asks softly, handing Stiles a little glittery reindeer.

Stiles takes it and puts it somewhere in the middle. “Yeah, like, if they had glitter on them, she sure would've got them,” he laughs a little, fondly.

Derek smiles and nods, like he understands it.

“We used to have a couple of trees in my home when I was little,” he says, getting up to help Stiles, too, now. Stiles grins at him. “One inside and one outside. My dad was the one who usually had to put the lights on the huge tree outside. Laura used to help him a lot with those things, because she was the eldest.”

“Yeah, I imagine climbing up a ladder when you are a toddler is frowned upon even if you're a werewolf, right?” Stiles laughs and then Derek sighs, like he's remembering something, still smiling.

“My mom wasn't even one who freaked out when me or my sisters got hurt, we all knew the pain would fade away and we wouldn't even have a scar to show after, but still. She said that watching us getting hurt was what really upset her. My dad was pretty calm about everything, he usually let us get away with a lot of things,” Derek says and Stiles can't help but listen to all of it, enraptured. He wants to know everything about Derek and his life before the fire, know that his family was really just like any other. He sometimes gets really worked up thinking about what Kate Argent wiped away, thinking about all those innocent people murdered for something they didn't have control over. “Like, I broke my arm this one time,” Derek goes on and looks at Stiles like he's expecting him to nod or say something, so he does, he nods. “And it was really bad, it hurt a lot. I was maybe five or four, I don't really know, but I remember thinking it was the worst thing I've ever felt. Probably was. And my dad came out of the house and talked to me while my arm was mending itself. He was really calm and collected, I remember. He was like that.”

“Your dad sounds really cool,” Stiles murmurs, putting an angel on the tree and watching the lights reflect on the shiny porcelain.

“Yeah, he was,” Derek replies, and touches Stiles' back softly and even through the layers of clothing his fingers are warm and sure. “I remember your mom, a little.”

Stiles turns to look at Derek, surprised. “Really?”

Derek bends down to grab another decoration and spends some little time thinking. Stiles doesn't know about what, but he can't wait to hear what Derek remembers of his mom. He loves getting those little snippets of her life he can't really remember. Before everything changed.

“I remember seeing her around town, she smiled a lot,” Derek says, like he's not really sure and Stiles can't help but nod, because she did, she smiled and laughed a lot, that Stiles remembers. “You do resemble her.”

Stiles lowers his eyes on the little decoration in his hand, little sparkles of glitter falling on his fingers and palms and then smiles a really sad smile, nods a little.

“Yeah, I know.” _My dad used to tell me every time he got drunk enough_ , he doesn't say, but it still hangs in the air between them for a long time nonetheless.

**

“Is it cool or is it cool?” Stiles asks, clapping Derek on the back and motioning to the house, all decorated now. Lights hang from the fireplace mantle and there are some on the door frame that leads to the backyard. Stiles even put some over Derek's bed frame, even if Derek side eyed him the whole time. He didn't say Stiles needed to stop, so Stiles didn't. And now Derek's bedroom looks a lot prettier.

“Yes,” Derek replies, like it's a great feat. “It's pretty.”

“Ha-ah!” Stiles crows and he is already feeling the Christmas spirit. “I like it, the reindeer under the tree is what really makes it.”

“Yes, after we spent four hours putting up decorations all over the place, the one reindeer under the tree is what really makes the space more festive.”

“Shut up, you like it. Man, I'm beat,” Stiles yawns and creaks his neck. His back hurts and he really hopes he's going to sleep tonight, but he's pretty sure he is. He's kinda tired.

“You go first,” Derek says to him, pointing to the bathroom. “I'm making tea.”

Stiles shrugs and nods, he's not opposed to drinking a warm cup of tea before bed. Maybe he'll relax more and he'll be able to sleep through the night. He grabs his pajama and then goes to brush his teeth and take a short shower, the hot water scalding him to his bones.

He gets back all loose-limbed and with still wet hair, and finds Derek in the kitchen with a mug in his hands and looking right back at Stiles. He's leaning against the counter, ankles crossed and barefoot, dark henley and jeans fitting tight. He looks incredibly good, all casual like and handsome, and Stiles licks his lips subconsciously, falters a little in his steps. Derek's eyes are lazily tracking his every move and Stiles feels himself flush under the scrutiny. He hopes he can mask it under the flush from the shower.

When he joins Derek at the kitchen counter, one mug is waiting for him, steam raising up from the golden surface of the tea. He grabs it and takes a little sip that burns his tongue and warms him right to his toes. He pushes his hips against the counter and tries not to look up at Derek, who's just watching him silently. He doesn't know what he's feeling right now, but his heart is running, running and Derek can totally hear it and Stiles doesn't know how to make it stop, can't do anything but drink his tea and pretend he's not completely aware of every spot of his body that's brushing against Derek's, the way they're so close and, if Stiles really listened intently, he's sure he could pick up Derek's heartbeat, too.

“You should sleep in my bed,” Derek murmurs and Stiles stops breathing for a long moment, looks up at him with wide incredulous eyes. “I mean, I always have to come down and lead you upstairs. You should just sleep in my bed.”

“I.” Stiles starts, then stops, unsure of what he wants to say. It's not something they never did before, they do it every night, but usually Derek sleeps alone for a while and, when Stiles wakes up screaming or crying or simply can't fall asleep, then, only then, he comes down and collects Stiles. “Okay,” he says, because Derek offered.

“Okay,” Derek repeats, and resumes drinking his tea.

Stiles whole body is silently thrumming.

**

The little lights in the bed frame create a soft atmosphere, bathe in gold the whole room, the covers and the throw pillows, and Stiles feels good with Derek's arms around him.

He tries to make himself smaller inside the embrace and holds faintly one of Derek's hands with loose fingers.

Derek squeezes him for a second and Stiles is already closing his eyes 

** 

He's in a dark place and it's so cold, so cold, he's shivering hard and his teeth are chattering. He doesn't know where he is, he can't see a damn thing. He tries to feel his way using his hands but he can only touch something wet and cold, liquid. He's on a floor, he's sure of this, it's hard under his legs and feet and he's sitting against a wall. If he only could find a way to make light, understand where he is so he could get up and leave.

He doesn't think he's hurt, he could get up and slowly make his way around, but he's not sure he'll go anywhere far, not with the pitch black surrounding him. He could be in a closed room, for all he knows. He could be in a huge place and never find an exit. He's also freezing.

He pats himself down to find out what he's wearing, and he's only in a shirt and pants, short sleeved and bare footed. He whimpers and tries to paw at the wall behind him, but it's solid and doesn't budge. He slips a little on the liquid on the floor and ends up banging his head on the hard surface, moans in pain and frustration.

“Help,” he murmurs, sure nobody will hear him. Nobody ever hears him. He's always alone. “Please, why?”

No one answers him, there's just his ragged breathing and pitiful moans in the air.

“What did I do?” he shouts, slams his hands on the wall and slips again, this time backwards. He ends up drenched in cold liquid, that sticks his shirt to his back and makes him flinch and cry out. When he tries to turn to his front, he hears a noise that makes him suck in a breath.

“Help!” he cries, hope reigniting in his chest. “Help!”

“...iles.”

 He gets upright after a few failed attempts and he's now completely drenched from head to toe, but someone is here with him, maybe they can help each other and find a way to escape, he's not alone.

“Stiles,” the voice whispers again and this time Stiles stop, listens closely.

“Derek?” he says, confused. He tries to wipe his tears away with his hands but ends up sticky from the liquid on his skin, scratches his cheeks in annoyance. “Derek, is that you?”

“It's always been you.”

“What, what do you mean? Where are you?” he asks frantically, heart beating out of control and tears sliding down his cheeks. “I can't see.”

“There's nothing else here but me.”

“Where are you? Give me your hand!” Stiles says, patting everywhere around him to find if he can feel Derek somewhere, but he can only feel wetness and nothing else.

“It's your fault.”

Stiles sobs and says, “I know, I'm sorry,” and shuffles towards the voice, or where he thinks it is. He keeps patting the floor, crying and shivering, until he feels a knee, a leg and makes a surprised noise. “Derek!” he shouts, happy to have found him. He keeps touching him, to ground himself and Derek that they're together. Derek is lying on the floor and isn't moving and Stiles can feel that Derek's clothes are wet, too.

“I'm dead and it's all your fault,” Derek says, grabbing Stiles wrist in a tight grip, making him scream in horror. Suddenly, a blinding light appears from nowhere and he flinches, scared, blinks rapidly to adjust to the whiteness. Derek is looking at him with rage written across his features, hard edges splattered with blood and eyes a flaring blue. His clothes are completely red, droplets cascading on the floor from a deep gash in his chest and neck, from cuts on his wrists, and he keeps squeezing Stiles hard. He realizes that the liquid he felt on the floor was Derek's blood. Everywhere he looks, can only see red red red.

“No!”

“Stiles!”

“No! I'm sorry, no!” Stiles screams, tries to get away from Derek's anger and pain, claws at his hands frantically.

The fingers are gripping his face and neck now, and Stiles trashes against the hold. Derek is looming over him, pushing him down against the floor and Stiles cries and cries and can't breathe.

“Stiles, stop, wake up!”

He jerks awake with a gasp and a startle. Derek is leering over him, looking down at Stiles with a worried expression and big eyes. Stiles stares at him for a long moment, breath frozen in his chest and a death grip on Derek bicep and shoulder. He can feel his nails biting the skin, the fine tremors in his body and fingers an electric buzz in his system, and for a moment he's still inside the nightmare where Derek was choking him and telling him he was dead because of Stiles.

“You're okay now,” Derek murmurs, brushing the spot under Stiles left ear with his thumb, trying to calm him. “You're here.”

“Derek,” Stiles whispers, tightens his grip on him so much he's sure he's hurting him, but Derek doesn't even flinch. “Fuck, Derek.”

“It's okay, you're okay.

Stiles puts a hand on the back of Derek's neck and tugs him down, against him. Derek curls up around Stiles and Stiles hugs him, his legs around Derek's and his right hand clawing at Derek's back. He's still so scared and he feels guilty, he feels like he really cut Derek open and let his blood flow and let it happen. Derek is so warm against him, he's breathing and whole and existing, he's not cold and lifeless and raging, he's holding Stiles tight like he wants to.

“Can I touch you?” Stiles asks, voice shot and no breath at all. “Tell me I can touch you, Derek, tell me.”

“Yeah, yeah, fuck, you can,” Derek says, and he's looking at Stiles through half lidded eyes and Stiles doesn't waste time surging up and kissing him, hard and uncoordinated. His body is thrumming with adrenaline and Derek is kissing him back, gripping Stiles' hair and turning his head so he can deepen the kiss, slots their mouths together right and goes for it. Stiles opens his mouth and whimpers when Derek licks inside, kisses him thoroughly and filthy, his fingers clenching in the fabric of Derek's shirt. Stiles is shaking, but not from the cold; he's shaking because he's pushing his hips up against Derek's and they're both hard, both biting and licking and Derek is growling and shoving down against Stiles and Stiles is going to come in the next two seconds.

“Derek, please, I...” Stiles murmurs, trying to get rid of Derek's offensive clothes, he needs to touch and see and he needs it now. He wants it hard and so badly he's shaking with it. He grips Derek's waistband and pushes it down, all stumbling fingers and bitten off moans. Derek pushes off him and leans on his side, takes his own clothes off with his eyes never leaving Stiles'. He looks _so good_ , so hot, all hard muscles and chest hair and disheveled hair and Stiles can't help but push him on his back and crawl over him, legs spread open over his hips and ass grinding down on Derek's crotch shamelessly.

Derek moans and grips his waist tight to stop him, he thinks, Stiles doesn't know, but he doesn't want to, he just needs Derek to take him, be rough with him, anything, he wants all of Derek.

“You want it? Tell me,” Stiles whispers on Derek's parted lips, “Stop being gentle,” says, moving up and down, ass brushing over Derek's erection. He gets on his knees to take his own pants away when Derek nods, feverish eyes and heavy breaths and all. Stiles needs to _know_ Derek wants him, too, that he's not only saying yes because Stiles wants and needs to fuck. He wants Derek to want him. “You want me?”

“Yeah, I want you,” Derek kisses him again and helps Stiles undress, slides the pants off his legs with nimble fingers and throws them on the floor, touches Stiles' thighs and ass and chest, makes him gasp and moan and yes, this is what Stiles needs. He's finally burning up, after all those months he spent with chattering teeth and cold skin – every single of Derek's touches makes him feel like there's a fire in his veins, like he could burst into flames and explode in a thousand million speckles of light, but also like Derek is knitting him back together.

He finds lube in Derek's drawer and pushes him back on the bed with a firm hand, makes him watch while he fingers himself with one, two, three fingers, moaning loud and always looking down at him – to make Derek understand, to make him feel like he feels, how his eyes sparkle and his lips look all wet and bitten red. Derek is running his fingertips all over Stiles' skin, making him tremble and stutter in his preparation, fingers stopping for a second and then pushing deep. He doesn't want to wait a minute longer, he needs Derek's cock in him _now_ so he licks into Derek's mouth and guides him to his entrance, without hesitation.

It's not an easy slide, even with all the lube they're using, Derek's cock glistening with it and Stiles' fingers slipping on skin, and Derek tries to slow him down a little, puts his hands on Stiles hips to stop him, but Stiles swats them away and bears down hard, gritting his teeth against the sudden pain and the sting of it. He wants it rough. He wants to _feel_. He wants to feel it even tomorrow when he wakes up, remember what happened, that it wasn't a nightmare, that Derek was here, here with him, _in_ him.

Derek gasps and looks up at him in wonder and worry, murmurs Stiles' name.

“ _Stop being gentle_ , I don't need it,” Stiles repeats and puts his hands on Derek's wrists, pushes them down on the mattress with every movement. He waits a beat before he starts fucking himself on Derek's cock, up and down, slowly and then gaining rhythm. Derek's eyes are roaming over Stiles' body, all over his face and lips and neck, then going down to his chest and nipples and Stiles feels a shiver trail down his back, he wriggles his ass on a down stroke and Derek's hips buck up suddenly, making Stiles cry out.

“Fuck,” he says, shaking his head like he can't believe how it feels. Derek is big and it burns, the four fingers didn't really prepare him for it and it's still his first time with a real cock, but it also feels _so good_ – knowing Derek is fucking him and he's looking at Stiles like he can't even believe he's there with him, the way he's letting Stiles decide what he wants. He feels good and tingly and when he pushes down again and Derek's cock hits his prostate, he closes his eyes and falls forward, hides his face in Derek's neck, his orgasm building up.

Derek frees his wrists and grabs Stiles' asscheeks tight, fucks up into him hard and fast, making Stiles' cock brush over his abs with every movement and spill between them even before he can really feel himself tumble over the edge. He tightens around the cock in his ass and Derek hisses, stutters a little in his thrusts, makes a soft moan and hugs Stiles to his chest when he comes suddenly.

They're both breathing hard, Stiles still hiding in Derek's neck and the other still clutching him, still hard inside him. Stiles' head is buzzing and there are so many things he wants to say and do; he wants to nuzzle Derek and kiss him, he wants to get up and shower, wants to sleep, wants to do it all over again. Instead, he just stays silent and lets Derek pull out, turn him on his back and get up from the bed. No one says anything or looks at the other, Derek just brushes a hand over Stiles' chest and then disappears down the stairs.

The air around him seems to shift silently; from hot hot hot, scorching, to chilly and cold. In the still house around him, he can pick out every single noise Derek's making – going down the stairs barefooted, shuffling through something, he then opens the door of the fireplace and smothers the remnants of the fire, closes it and paddles through the living room to the bathroom. Water running.

Stiles isn't disappointed. Well, maybe a little, maybe he thought they would end up kissing and falling asleep curled around one another, but now that he's not touching Derek. Now he feels cold, the sweat on his skin chilling him to the bone, the come on the back of his legs is uncomfortable, but he doesn't want to get up – feels too ashamed for that.

He _used_ Derek, that's what happened. He asked him if he wanted Stiles to touch him, but he still pushed him down on the bed and fucked himself on his cock. He used Derek's body to feel something. It _is_ his fault.

He's a monster.

He hides his face in his pillow and forces himself to black out before Derek gets back.

**

When he wakes up, the bed is empty. It's still early enough that it's still dark outside and Stiles peers over the edge of the bed to the clock Derek keeps on his nightstand to see what time it is and finds out it's only 7:15 in the morning. And the bed is empty.

Derek gets up early on a normal day, but Stiles knows that today Derek left because he didn't want to be near Stiles. Not after what happened.

When he moves to get up, too, he flinches at the pull in his ass – it's really uncomfortable and he feels sore all over, not only where he's still tender, but his tights and calves, too, his back. He finds out he's not covered in dried come, like he thought he would, Derek must've cleaned him while he was asleep and that makes him feel even shittier, thinking about Derek being nice, like he needed even more reasons to hate himself. His muscles protest when he stands up but he stretches a little and grabs his pajama still lying on the floor. The house is really warm this morning and he can distinctly hear the crackling of the fire from the living room when he slowly makes his way down. He limps a little over the stairs and mumbles something about having a hot shower, when he spots Derek sitting at the table in the kitchen, looking intently at him.

Stiles freezes on the spot and stares at him, a feeling of dread washing over him. He doesn't know if Derek is going to yell at him or just. Stay silent forever. Judging him with his eyebrows and beautiful face.

“Hey,” he whispers, lowering his eyes to the floor, because no one ever said Stiles knows how to pick his battles 

“Hey,” Derek says with a clipped tone, and Stiles inwardly flinches. He knew Derek was pissed, obviously. Stiles made a mistake and he should. Apologize. Possibly run away and hide somewhere far, like, Tibet. Where he could _not_ talk forever. “How are you feeling?”

Stiles sighs, because Derek is still Derek even after what happened, and half shrugs, clenches his hands into loose fists. “Okay. A little sore.”

“Are you hurt?”

He shakes his head immediately. “No, I'm fine. I wanted to-”

Derek interrupts him, says “come here,” and Stiles looks up at him, surprised. Derek is reaching out for him with a hand, still sitting at the table and Stiles just stares at him. “Come here, please.”

“Derek, I-” he starts, but then cuts himself off, sighs and goes to where Derek is sitting, stops at a few feet from the table, but Derek grips his wrist and tugs him until he's right in front of him. Stiles makes a startled noise and lets himself be tugged, goes pliant under Derek's hands, lets him move him how he wants.

“Are you hurt, Stiles? The truth.” Derek asks again, this time his voice is stern and he's looking up at him all intense and serious. Stiles feels his breath stop for a long moment, but then shakes his head.

“No, I don't think I'm hurt. It just feels tender. I'm just sore,” he whispers, embarrassed. He can't help but look down at Derek's fingers still closed around his wrist, all tender and soft. He doesn't know how Derek can be this way with him, doesn't want to know why.

Derek nods and says, “don't do that again.”

Stiles shrinks into himself as much as he can and tries to pull away, but Derek doesn't let him, tugs him still closer. “I'm so sorry, I won't.”

“You wanted to punish yourself and you almost got hurt. Do you understand what happened tonight? What you did?” Derek goes on, his voice too soft for Stiles to stand.

“I'm not hurt, I was careless, but I'm not hurt. I'm fine. It's _you_.”

Derek frowns. “Me?”

“I used you to get what I wanted. How shitty of me,” Stiles responds, self-deprecating. He feels sick to his stomach, thinking what Derek must have felt when Stiles was just thinking about himself. Derek doesn't want the same things he wants. Doesn't feel the same things he feels. That, alone, is a betrayal. Then there's the matter of actually using Derek's body, something he knows is still a fresh wound for Derek.

“You didn't use me, I was right there with you all the way.”

Stiles sighs, annoyed and frustrated, shakes his head and takes a step back. “I pushed you down, I held your wrists against the mattress, I didn't listen to you. I just wanted to _feel_. You, something, warm. You didn't want that.”

Derek grabs his waist and pulls him against his chest and Stiles gasps, taken aback. His hands automatically wind around Derek's shoulders and he looks down at those pale eyes, so earnest and intense.

“If I really wanted to push you away, I could've done it. I'm a werewolf, we both know I'm stronger than you. I was worried about you, you know. I didn't smell blood, but I could tell you were hurting. I didn't want to stop you, but I should have.”

Stiles doesn't know what to do with that. What does this mean, that they both wanted to get off and happened to be together? He always knew he was attracted to Derek, but the way things unfolded last night left him wanting more, even when ashamed, he still wanted more. He just never really thought Derek would have wanted something, too.

“I wanted to have sex with you,” Stiles murmurs, voice wavering and rough. He runs his fingers through the soft hair at the nape of Derek's neck, lowers his head to rest his forehead against Derek's. “I still want to.”

Derek smiles a little and Stiles closes his eyes.

“You should take a shower,” he says, voice faintly amused, makes Stiles shiver. “And I want to check you really aren't hurt.”

Stiles huffs a laugh and feels himself blush under the heated gaze he can feel and the warm hands on his back, massaging him through his clothes.

“Are you trying to get me naked again?” he jokes.

“Sure, always,” Derek replies and Stiles gapes at him, shocked. His face makes Derek laugh out loud and Stiles feels that warm tingly feeling spread through his body from his chest outwards.

**

In the bathroom Derek takes Stiles' clothes off first and then, after making sure the water is warm enough and having undressed too, pulls him under the spray with him. They gaze at each other like it's the first time they see the other, like they both are wondering where this is going, what is going to happen now, and then they're kissing.

At first it's just chaste lips on lips, tender touches and shaky breaths. Stiles trembles with feeling and curls his arms around Derek's neck, hangs onto him and lets him take most of his weight; Derek makes a soft little noise and caresses him tenderly from shoulders to waist, dips lower to touch his ass and then goes up again. After that, it's little nibs, bites, warm tongues and open mouths. They kiss like they want to devour, like they want it to mean something, like the want to mark. Stiles fists a hand in Derek's hair and pulls, makes him growl faintly and his eyes flash. Derek's skilled quick fingers are slipping through his ass crack, now, and Stiles gasps and hisses when they brush against his hole, still tender but wanting more. He stares wide eyed at Derek, panting hard and pink cheeked.

“Lemme see,” Derek says against Stiles' lips, turns Stiles around until the water is cascading on his face and his hands are spread against the wall. He gets on his knees behind Stiles and spreads him with tender hands, and Stiles throws his head back, closes his eyes against the hot feeling of being exposed like that for Derek to see, against the warm water in his mouth and the wild beating of his heart.

He jumps and cries out when he feels Derek lick him suddenly, his tongue a rapid flick against his entrance. “Fuck!” Stiles says, opens his legs more to jut his ass out, shameless. “Fuck,” he says again, leaning against the wall when Derek starts rimming him in earnest. His tongue is hard and soft at the same time, licking him thoroughly, pushing inside, then pulling out, then again inside. It's maddening and almost too much, when Derek licks a strip from the skin behind his balls up to his crack, he swears and pushes more against his face. His stubble tickles but his lips are soft and it's so different from anything he ever felt before, even with the soreness from being fucked for the first time just a few hours earlier, this feels _good_. Derek keeps fucking into him with his tongue and he's closing a hand around Stiles' dick now, slowly jacking him off and it's like going into overdrive, too many sensations at once and he short-circuits, shouts, his body seizing up, and comes messily all over the floor and Derek's fingers.

He feels like he's swimming, his head all over the place, when Derek puts an arm around his waist and turns Stiles around to face him, his back against the wall and head tipped against it to blink owlishly at Derek - and he's smiling, beard all glistening and wet with the fat droplets of water falling from his eyelashes and he's so _beautiful_. Stiles is so endeared he actually kisses him, opens his mouth to taste himself on Derek's tongue, puts both his hands on Derek's cock.

Derek makes a surprised sound in his mouth and then gathers him into his arms, kisses back with all he's got, making Stiles feel hotter than ever.

**

It's almost like falling, this thing with Derek.

It's easy, and makes him feel alight. It's like finding something right, something you never knew you needed, but now that you have it, it's just _right_. It makes Stiles' chest squeeze and then swell, makes him smile, search Derek with his eyes and fingertips. They're always close, every single spare moment they have, they're together. Kissing, touching, biting, fucking. It's Derek waking up and pulling Stiles against him, soft fingers on Stiles' belly under his shirt; it's Stiles laughing in the snow, throwing balls at Derek, falling together in a tumble of limbs and stolen kisses; it's the quiet of staying together in front the fireplace, the storm raging outside and the soft gasps Stiles makes with Derek's lips on him; it's everything.

Derek looks at him, sometimes, and Stiles can't breathe.

He doesn't feel cold.

**

Sometimes they lie on their backs in the snow, looking up at the pale sky and the sun peeking out from behind the tree branches.

“This is really stupid,” Stiles says, laughing out loud. “I can feel the snow seep through my clothes. Even my pants are wet. My ass is numb.”

“We should get up,” Derek replies, snorting, but doesn't make a move to actually do as he says.

“Yeah, we should,” Stiles says, turning around to lay on Derek's chest, smiling against his lips. The cold tip of his nose is resting against Derek's warm cheek and he laughs and laughs again, just because he can, and then kisses Derek, just because they're both there, lying on the ground, getting soaked through and freezing, but together.

“I think my balls are gonna fall off,” he whispers into Derek's mouth and Derek chuckles, right into Stiles' mouth. It tastes like peppermint.

“Definitely should get up.”

And Derek's mouth is so hot, the snow is so cold, he's _freezing_ , but his blood is surging through his veins and he feels tingly and he keeps kissing Derek, lets him lick into his mouth and he forgets everything else, only Derek exists and the birds chirp all around them and this is _almost_ perfect.

**

Sometimes they'll open the couch and lay on the second bed and Stiles will read some book he found in Derek's collection and Derek will just listen, small smile playing on his lips and fingers hooked under the hem of Stiles' shirt.

Sometimes they'll just spend hours and hours mapping each other's bodies out with fingers and lips and then they'll fuck, panting, all accompanied with hard touches and tender bites and the snow will come down, will deposit on the ground and will decorate the world in white, but Stiles won't feel the cold, on his back with Derek between his legs, Derek's lips on his neck and his bitten off moans in his ears.

Sometimes Stiles won't sleep, but he won't leave the bed because Derek is sleeping curled around him and he won't feel that old fear washing over him, scared his nightmares will pop out from nowhere to scar him for life, because Derek's breathing is slow and warm against the nape of Stiles' neck and he will feel one day closer to sanity.

**

“Sometimes I dream of killing you,” he whispers one night to Derek, staring at the little lights overhead, then at the faint shadows they make all over the walls and the bed. “I kill you, or Allison, or Scott. My dad. I basically killed every single one of you, and it freaks me out because I remember killing people and how much I liked it – being in control, being able of just doing things and planning them. It was really hard to stop, even when I was trying to be the one using my own body, it was _hard_ to stop. I'm afraid I'm a really bad person at heart.”

Derek shakes his head from where it's resting on a pillow and the long hair over his forehead tickles Stiles' cheek.

“You're afraid,” he just says.

Stiles frowns and turns a little to look at him, confused. “ _Yeah_?” like it's not the reason he can't go to sleep without feeling ice in his chest, all the shakiness and paranoia.

“If you weren't scared, then _that_ would make you a bad person. You feel guilty for what you did. You can't be held accountable for what happened when you were being possessed by a Japanese fox demon.”

Stiles rests his cheek on Derek's head and keeps staring out of the window, feels his chest sweep with the thought of how the knowledge of having hurt someone made him feel elated, the happiness he sickly felt every time, how having his hands matted with blood was amazing and how he loved creating chaos. It felt like coming home.

“Still doesn't excuse me,” he murmurs.

“No, you made mistakes, but you're owning up to them. This matters,” Derek replies and then turns him on his side and curls up around him, pushes Stiles' knees up to his chest with his own and basically folds Stiles to his liking. Stiles lets him do it because it makes him feel marginally better.

The fluttering in his chest doesn't stop until he falls asleep.

**

When he's alone in Derek's bed, he thinks of the world outside – back in Beacon Hills, or really anywhere that isn't inside these walls. He started to think about this house as home, Derek as something, someone close to his heart and he's not really sure what to make of it.

Derek is all warmth and strong arms that hold him through the nights, he's the same man he helped back home, who he thought was going to die over and over again, but he's also the man who can kiss Stiles until he feels like he's suffocating, like his heart is being squeezed by five fingers and by his smile. Derek is an enigma wrapped in another enigma – he's too dark and too bright at the same time, cutting edges that turn into soft spoken words once you get to know him; he's pale eyes that look right into you and you can read only when you learned how to.

Sometimes, Stiles is afraid of thinking what will happen to them once they leave their little cocoon, sometimes he just wants to make the most of it – wants to kiss and be kissed by Derek, uncaring of the world back in Beacon Hills, _this_ is what really matters now, this little bubble of snow and whispered secrets into each other's mouths. This is something Stiles never though he would have, but now can't function without. He wants Derek to hold him hard and make him forget, he wants Derek to mend him piece by piece and he wants to decipher Derek like an old book, wants to read every page and crook of him. He wants to be fucked and feel Derek right up to every crevice he never knew he had.

It's something that's going to swallow him whole, but he can't help but want.

He calls Derek like a siren and Derek always comes.

**

In the bathtub, Stiles sitting in Derek's lap, on Derek's dick, back to Derek's chest and he's moving his hips in shallow figure eights, head thrown back and lips open. Derek is holding Stiles' hips with hard fingers, will leave bruises that he will trace with is tongue later and Stiles will look in the mirror every morning before getting in the shower. The water is sloshing with their every movement and little droplets keep cascading on their skin.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers, moves his hips back and then up. “Fuck, Derek.”

“Yeah,” Derek says back, his voice low and ruined. He tightens his grip on Stiles and helps him move, bucks up suddenly and Stiles squirms.

The bubbles are almost completely gone, and the air in the room is so hot and heavy that Stiles feels like he's going to suffocate and burn up from the inside. His skin is both clammy and wet, water and sweat mixing together, and every time Derek's cock fills him up, he can't breathe. He's gripping the edges of the tub so hard his knuckles are turning white and his knees bang against the white porcelain with every thrust.

Derek puts one of his hands where Stiles' thigh meets his crotch and just. _Squeezes_. And Stiles jerks his legs closed so fast water falls out the tub with a wet sound all over the floor. He keeps squeezing, more delicately, then opens his hand and runs his fingers right up to Stiles' balls, fondles them with a tender touch and Stiles' legs fall open again on their own volition, his voice getting all breathy and broken.

“Is this too much?” Derek asks, because he knows Stiles likes when he's rough and hard, since their third time when Stiles told him he didn't want control, he wanted _Derek_ to control everything, but he always makes sure Stiles is fine, that he isn't hurting him or he isn't uncomfortable.

Stiles nods as much as he can in the state he's in, and opens his legs more, puts his own hand on Derek's, moves them over to his cock. “Yeah,” he says, gritty voice and body lax. “No, go on.”

Derek hums, chest vibrating against Stiles' back and then sits up straighter, moving Stiles with him. Stiles gasps at the feeling of Derek's cock shifting into him and moans, gripping onto Derek for dear life. “Careful,” Derek murmurs into Stiles' ear and then pushes him up to his feet with strong hands and legs. Stiles can't do anything else but follow Derek's guide, get up on wobbly legs and uncertain feet. “Good.”

“Derek?” Stiles babbles, unsure of what Derek wants to do but following nonetheless. When they both get upright, Derek slips out of him and the feeling makes Stiles whimper. He hates the feeling of being empty, doubled with the way he's starting to shake from the cold and the fact that his dick is still hard as a rock. Well. “Where are you going?”

Derek makes sure Stiles can actually stand up by himself before he reaches out to grab the big towel hanging from the rack on their right, and then steps out of the tub carefully, always holding Stiles' hand all the while. He's standing in the middle of the bathroom, dripping and naked and beautiful, and he's smiling up at Stiles, helping him getting out of the tub, too, without braining himself. Stiles is confused and freezing, but he follows Derek, gets first one foot out and then the other, and, when he's standing in front of Derek, the other wraps him up in the huge towel.

“Why?” Stiles asks, because they were having sex not two seconds ago and it was going really well, Stiles was on his way to a good orgasm, and now he's basically freezing his ass off. “I liked the sex part.”

Derek huffs out a laugh and keeps running the towel on Stiles skin, makes sure he's drying him off good and thoroughly. He wipes Stiles' face from sweat and water, then dries his hair and then kisses him, fast and short. Stiles pouts when it's over too soon.

“Put your hands over there,” Derek says, pointing to the bathroom counter behind them. His voice is soft but sure, and Stiles feels himself getting riled up again, from zero to fucking seventy in no time.

He licks his lips and looks up at Derek for a long moment, unsure, but then he does; he puts both his palms on the counter and takes a deep shaky breath. He can see his reflection in the mirror and he doesn't want to look at his splotchy red face or the way his hair is all over the place or how he's already sweating over his upper lip. So he glances back at Derek, who's just throwing the wet towel back over the rack and then looking up and down Stiles' backside. He feels himself blush and, even after all the times they had sex and touched each other, this is still different. He can spot every single change in his face, the way his pupils dilate and his eyelashes flutter when Derek runs feathery fingertips up one of Stiles' legs. He bends down a little so his ass is jutting out just so and Derek hums, pleased.

“Spread your legs for me,” Derek tells him and Stiles complies, shuffles his feet apart until one bangs against the little stool Derek keeps there for no reason at all, with a loud bang in the quiet of the room. Stiles sees Derek getting down on his knees behind him in the reflection of the mirror, and his breath stops short – Derek's presence is so huge and overwhelming, Stiles can feel his warmth even when Derek's not touching him. He can tell where Derek is going to put his hands only by the way his breathing feels against his asscheeks or the back of his thighs. He still gasps, though, when Derek spreads him open and blows over his entrance, his hole clenching on nothing. “Look at you,” Derek says, voice almost a growl. “You're so pink, bet I could slip two fingers in without any resistance.”

Stiles moans and hangs his head down, nods with his eyes closed. He could.

“Yeah,” he whispers for the millionth time, yes yes yes, always yes for Derek; he trusts him to always make it good for Stiles, always on the verge of toomuch _toomuch_ and not enough at the same time, hard and fast is just as good as maddeningly slow and deep – it's like Derek knows exactly how to turn Stiles a pile of goo with just his fingers and his surprisingly dirty talk. For how much Derek _doesn't_ talk outside the bedroom, during sex he's always saying something to Stiles, praising him for how good he is, or how wet or open for him he is, always saying things that make Stiles' toes curl.

“Yeah,” Derek repeats and licks around Stiles' rim with the tip of his tongue. Stiles jerks a little in surprise and he hits the surface of the mirror with his forehead. He moans long and loud when Derek pushes his tongue in, hard, and then strokes his rim with one of his thumbs, pushes the tip in and then pulls it out. “Yeah?”

“Fuck yes,” Stiles replies, straightens up just enough to push back against Derek's tongue and finger. “More.”

And then Derek hums, licks him thoroughly and grabs Stiles' hips with both his hands to pull him back more, to get deeper and deeper. Stiles' hands slip on the counter and he falls down on his elbows, bangs against the sink with one and the pain doesn't even register – he's too focused on Derek's tongue and the sharp grip he has on Stiles' hips and the way he's humming, sending vibrations up Stiles' spine that make his legs tremble.

“Jesus,” Stiles moans, slams one open palm against the mirror and looks up, feeling his breath coming short. The Stiles he sees in the reflection is simply debauched – hair all fucked up, lips bitten red and wet, color high in his cheeks, eyes unfocused and sparkling. His muscles are all tense and ready to snap with just one more shift of Derek's tongue in his ass, his stomach pulled tight and dick hard.

He can hear Derek lick him, the sounds wet and filthy in the silent room and he shakes his head to clear it from the lust fog, tries to take a breath before he passes out.

“Give me one of your hands,” Derek orders him suddenly and Stiles complains with a high pitched whine, because Derek needs to stop and make him come, preferably today. But he complies, gives Derek his right hand and gasps when Derek licks his fingers. He gets upright to see it in the mirror, looks down at Derek kneeling behind him with three fingers in his mouth. Derek is looking right back at him and Stiles almost comes just from that – Derek's pale eyes and plump lips closed around his digits. He lets Stiles' fingers go with a soft pop and guides them to his hole. “Finger yourself, c'mon.”

Stiles takes a shuddering breath and slides one finger in first then, when he feels that he's dripping wet and _so loose_ , he slides another and another. He moans and throws his head back, closes his eyes against the flood of sensations. It's good, but not as good as it were Derek's fingers instead, he can't get all in with the way his wrist is crooked and he huffs out an annoyed breath.

“Derek,” he complains, still pushing his own fingers as deep as he can get them and Derek licks him one more time, fingers and rim and all, and then gets up.

He looks Stiles straight in the eyes and crowds against him. Stiles' knuckles brush against Derek's cock with every movement and he's still so hard. Stiles wants it in him right now.

“Tell me what you want,” Derek says, one hand slowly traveling up Stiles' back, over one shoulder, around his neck, touch light like a feather. He's not even holding him, he's just resting his hand there but it sends Stiles into overdrive. His blood surges up, and he gasps, wide eyed. “This?” Derek continues, when he notices.

Stiles nods and pushes his fingers in in _in_.

“What else, Stiles?” Derek keeps saying his name and Stiles pushes his ass back against his crotch, to let him know without saying it out loud. “Tell me.”

Stiles would glare at him, but he's too far gone – so he just whimpers and looks at Derek though half-lidded eyes, hips jerking in time with his own fingers in his ass. “Fuck me,” he murmurs and Derek's grip on his neck tightens, pushes Stiles' head back a little. “Put your fingers in me, your cock, I don't care, just fuck me.”

Derek's eyes flash bright blue and he growls, his other hand going to grip Stiles' wrist to pull his fingers out, making him gasp. He then replaces Stiles' fingers with his own and _there_ \- “There! Fuck!” Stiles shouts, because Derek's fingers are so deep inside him, curled a little at the tip. “Ah!” he can't even keep his eyes open anymore, it's so good. It seems like Derek stopped jerking him around, because he's hitting Stiles' prostate with every push and Stiles is trembling and his knees are weak, but Derek's keeping him upright with his own body and grip on Stiles' throat.

It takes him exactly two minutes to clench around Derek's finger, muscles all pulled tight, and come with a shout, so hard his vision blurs. The fingers keep stroking him through the aftershocks and then, when it gets too much, he whines and tries to get away. Derek lets him go slowly, gently pulling out his fingers and release his hold on Stiles' neck. He turns him around so that Stiles is leaning against the counter and pushes him up so he can sit on it, a little wobbly.

“You did so good,” Derek tells him and kisses him faintly on the mouth. “Can you stay upright while I get you some water?”

He thinks so, so he nods, leaning completely against the mirror at his back. He keeps his eyes closed and waits for Derek to come back to him, listens to him filling up the glass he keeps on the sink and then tip his head forward to push the rim against his mouth. Stiles drinks greedily and all at once, feeling immediately better after. He opens his eyes and blinks up at Derek, smiles a little. Derek smiles back.

“How are you feeling?”

“Hm, pretty good,” Stiles answers. “I think I just lost some brain cells through my dick.”

Derek laughs at him and gathers him into his arms, kisses his cheek and his jawline. Stiles closes both his arms and legs around his strong body and lets him carry him to bed. The air is cold and unsettling out of the bathroom, and Stiles curls a little more around Derek to steal some warmth.

When they get past the stairs and up to the second floor, Derek deposits him gently on the bed, under the still messed up covers.

“If you give me five minutes, I'll blow you,” Stiles murmurs, eyes already slipping closed.

Derek snorts. “I don't need it, sleep.”

“No,” Stiles panics suddenly, when he feels Derek getting up. He grips his hand hard and looks at him with worried eyes. “Where are you going?”

Derek calms him with a kiss and a smile. “I have to tidy up the bathroom.”

“No, stay here, the bathroom will be there later. I want you here,” he says, trying to pull Derek back under the covers. “Please.”

Derek open his mouth to say something and then looks back at the stairs. Stiles pulls him in again.

“Okay,” he finally says and Stiles feels immediately better, smiles at him brightly and, when Derek is settled under the covers, turns around to face him and throws one leg over both of his, kisses him deeply and slow, one hand splayed on his bearded jaw and sucks on his tongue.

“Five minutes,” Stiles repeats against Derek open lips. “Wake me up.”

Derek nods and Stiles rests his head on Derek's chest, lets him hold him tight. He closes his eyes and he's out with a smile. 

** 

They're both lying together on the couch and Stiles is reading _The Little Prince_ with Derek sleeping on top of him, his head pillowed on Stiles' chest. Stiles spends more time staring at Derek's eyelashes and the way they cast soft shadows on his cheeks when the little Christmas lights light up, than actually reading. It's just that he never really had the opportunity to gaze shamelessly at Derek before, not really – he never really saw him sleep, peaceful, or laugh genuinely. He's like a total different person, lighter and happier – he lets Stiles touch him and hold him and Stiles loves it. He can't seem to be able to wipe the smile off his face, lately. It's just. He's using Derek's head to keep the book propped up and Derek didn't even complain, just closed his eyes as soon as his ear was pressed against Stiles' sternum, happy to listen to Stiles' heartbeat.

Stiles is falling in love with the book. He didn't remember it like this, deep and full of questions. It doesn't really seem like a children book and now he understands why he didn't like it when he was a kid, he didn't fully grasp it, couldn't really. But now he's older, everything makes more sense.

He's been lazily running his fingers through Derek's hair, brushing one socked feet up and down the back of one of his legs distractedly and Derek is almost purring, he's so relaxed and Stiles sometimes stops reading just to huff a soft laugh at the scene.

“Hey,” he says, “I would've never pegged you for the type,” waves the closed book in front of Derek's face.

Derek smirks without even blink an eye open. “It was Laura's favorite book. I read it because she loved it so much. I find it dramatic and over romanticized, but I guess it's good.”

“Oh,” Stiles says. “That makes sense.”

Derek turns his head and leaves a little kiss on Stiles' chest, then pecks him on the lips, dislodging the book from Stiles' grasp.

“It reminds me of her, I don't want to forget this, too.”

Stiles nods and closes his arms around Derek's neck, holds on. “No, I totally get it. It's like me with this Christmas thing. I don't really care about it, but it reminds me of my mom so I love it.”

“Yeah, exactly.”

They kiss lazily for a while, deep and slow, Derek's hands roaming under Stiles' shirt and Stiles pushing his heels in the back of Derek's legs to rub their crotches together. Derek makes a soft noise in the kiss and Stiles smiles, opens his eyes a little to look at him.

“I wish I didn't have to go back to Beacon Hills,” he murmurs, suddenly, unaware of how he got there in the first place, only knows that he has a nagging feeling in his chest that sometimes makes him feel out of breath with seemingly no reason. “You could come back for a while?” Derek stops kissing him and sighs.

“You have school, friends, family there, I don't have anything left now. Cora left, Peter is no one even knows where,” he says, staring down at the patterns he's making on Stiles' belly with his fingers. Stiles looks at the ceiling and drops his hands from where they were tangled in Derek's hair. “Chris and I left because we really had to. I don't have a reason to come back.”

Stiles pushes him away with a hand on the chest until Derek gets the message and sits up, leans against the back of the couch. Stiles curls over his own knees and hugs himself, looks away from Derek's green eyes and pink lips, anywhere but him.

“Oh, okay,” he murmurs, chest hurting. He pats it with a fist and flinches away from Derek's fingers, when he tries to touch him, comfort him. He doesn't want it now.

“Stiles,” Derek pleads, “it's not that. You're young, you don't- Do you really think we could be together back in Beacon Hills?”

“ _Don't patronize me_ , Derek. I know this isn't some forever-kind of love, I know we just. Like, it's because we're here alone in the middle of nowhere that we fell into this sex thing, I'm aware that this would have never happened back home but I need someone there for me, who gets me. Having sex with you is a bonus, not what I want you for.”

Derek is looking at him with big shocked eyes, the flickering lights of the tree and on the fireplace make him look almost ethereal, all pale eyes and dark stubble. Stiles can't even stomach it.

“I'm so mad right now, I literally feel like I'm going to be sick. I need to go outside for a moment, just. Don't follow me,” he says getting up, leaves Derek on the couch and grabs his coat and mittens and beanie, puts everything on in a fumble and runs outside before he starts crying for what feels like heartbreak. He thought what he felt for Lydia was bad, huge, the love of his entire life, but this is _worse_. So much worse. He's gasping for air even outside. His chest feels like is going to split open and his heart is going to fall out. Jesus, now he gets why there are millions of songs about this.

This is awful.

He sits on the rock near the lake and stares at nothing, his eyes wet with tears he refuses to let go. He's not going to cry about this, not now. He cried a lot lately, but he's not going to cry over Derek Hale. Yes, his heart feels bruised all over and he thinks he might be a little in love with the dude, but he's not going to turn this into a romantic comedy.

He sniffs and wipes at his eyes angrily, leans with his elbows on his knees and toys with his fingers. Stiles knows, okay, that this is something that just happened, like it clicked into place. Last year was so hectic and he's not even sure how he got out alive from the Nogitsune shtick and – Derek was there, handsome and caring and Stiles just wanted something for himself, for once. When the opportunity arose he took it. He was surprised when Derek didn't reject him, used to it as he is, and he still doesn't know why Derek didn't. He toyed with the thought of being with a guy more than once, he knew he isn't exactly straight since he met Danny and his dimples, when he started getting all hot thinking about Derek even when he couldn't stand him. He's not sure if he would've tried back home – if Derek would've said yes.

He doesn't really know, but now he feels like an idiot. He should just stop trying altogether.

Maybe his dad was right.

“Stupid,” he says to himself, scratches at his scalp with hard fingers and hides his stinging eyes between his knees.

“You're not,” Derek says behind him and Stiles startles so hard he almost falls face first into the snow. He didn't even hear him approach, with the snow and everything, and he pointedly doesn't turn around, but Derek just sits beside him and bends down to look him in the face. “You're not stupid.”

“I told you not to follow me,” he grits out, ashamed of being found crying all alone like an idiot with a crush.

“I wanted to tell you something,” Derek puts a hand on the nape of Stiles' neck and he stiffens, but doesn't push him away. “I don't want you to think this isn't important for me. Because it is.”

Stiles leans a little closer to Derek because he can't help himself, and the other hugs him tightly to his chest. This sucks.

“You don't have to say that just because I freaked out on you,” Stiles murmurs.

“I'm not. I'm trying to make you understand that this is the first relationship I ever had that didn't end up with me getting thrown under a bus.”

Stiles bites his lip and peeks at Derek from the corner of his eye. “Yeah,” he concedes because. Well, _yeah_. Derek has _history_.

Derek nods and nuzzles Stiles' cheek. “This is important for me because I know you're not going to do something to hurt me. I just know.”  
  
“I wouldn't. I care about you.” _I maybe am a little in love with you_ , he wants to say but he doesn't, he just quietly tries to have a silent meltdown inside. Because _ow_. He lets Derek brush the tip of his nose against his temple and then kiss it tenderly.

“Yeah, I know. I do, too.”

Stiles sighs and pecks him on the lips, tries to compartmentalize his own feelings, the way he feels warm and tingly when they're together, the way he feels safer with Derek with him, the way Derek is the only one who actually got him to open up a little – even if talking about what he went through is still hard - and the fact that he doesn't want to miss that if he can. Derek kisses him back and smiles softly.

“It's weird thinking how we ended up here, I mean, we used to hate each other and now you're the only person who can really understand me.”

“I didn't hate you, I just really couldn't stand you,” Derek says, smirking. Stiles hits him with a hand and rolls his eyes. “And it was different then, you were a little shit and I was in a bad place. Just like you are now, but I think you're slowly getting better.”

Stiles thinks about it for a moment and then decides that yes, he is getting better. The nightmares are still crazy and he sometimes can't shake the feeling he's actually killed all those people, the feeling of that void inside of him, the voice echoing in his mind, but he doesn't feel like he's gonna crumble if someone just as much as touches him.

“I feel better here, with you, you helped me a lot,” he confesses.

Derek kisses him again for a long moment, lips on lips, and then leans his forehead against Stiles'.

“You helped me, too.”

Stiles touches his face with kind hands and says, “I'm really glad.”

** 

That night, they don't go to sleep.

They spend it curled together on the second bed in the living room, the fireplace lit up with orange flames and the Christmas tree flickering prettily, all gold and warm.

Derek pushes Stiles back against the mattress and kisses him hungrily, runs his hands through Stiles' hair and over his skin, makes him moan filthily when he opens his legs, bends his knees so they're touching his shoulders and rims him for so long Stiles comes all over himself and Derek's tongue, when the other leans over his cock to catch the white stripes. He licks him through the aftershocks and then fingers him, pushes in deep and makes Stiles' legs tremble, hands clenching in the sheets and cheeks flushed a pretty pink.

Stiles is hard again after a few minutes, Derek's skilled fingers and his heated gaze the culprits, and he starts moving his ass in time with the digits inside him.  
  
“Fuck, oh my God, Derek, why do you always have to be such an asshole,” he babbles, scratching at Derek's scalp with his blunt nails, feels Derek's growls run through him, feels sweat run down his skin and he moans shamelessly, out loud, head thrown back and eyes closed.

Derek pushes in with a long thrust that makes Stiles cry out, clench around him and shiver. Derek's hands are pushing Stiles' knees into the mattress and he feels incredibly splayed open, at Derek's mercy and he loves it, the position makes Derek's dick slide deep, so incredibly _deep_ inside him that he jolts with every thrust, every hit on his prostate makes him dribble a little more precome all over himself. He puts his palms on Derek's ass and back of his thigh to feel the muscles working and moans into Derek's mouth with every push and pull.

“Yeah,” Derek growls, another hard thrust and then a kiss. “I'm so,” he says, doesn't even finish his sentence because Stiles is seizing up and coming without even a hand on his cock, he's shouting and his body is closing in on itself with the force of his orgasm.

Derek slows down his thrusts to let him catch his breath, it feels like his lungs are on fire and can't even breathe properly, his chest can't expand with the jumbled mess of feelings residing inside him. He opens his eyes a little and looks up at Derek through his lashes, moans a little when he touches Derek's chest with his palms, feels and hears him growl a little.

“C'mon,” Stiles slurs, pushes his ass back a little to incite Derek to move, _move, c'mon_ and Derek does, he pulls back a little and doesn't look away when he thrusts back in, makes Stiles gasp and clench around him. “Yeah,” he moans, blushes more when he hears how sloppy and wet he is, how lube and precome are dribbling out of his ass and making a mess of the sheets. He runs his fingers up Derek's pecs and curls them around the other's neck, pulls him in until he's leaning right over Stiles' lips, panting into each other's mouth.

“You feel so good,” Derek whispers, like it's a secret, a confession, and Stiles whimpers, bucks up against the next thrust, his body on fire and folded into itself. “ _Stiles._ ”

“Yeah, c'mon, come inside me,” he says, tries to push him in even more with a hand on Derek's ass.

Derek stares at him with big awed eyes and his mouth opens tenderly in an _O_ shape, and Stiles licks his soft bitten lips, can't help himself, and feels him stutter, groan and come deep inside him, hot and wet. Seeing Derek when he's having an orgasm is always the best part of having sex with him. He looks so vulnerable in that short moment, all closed eyes and parted lips, body strung tight and strong, but also weak at the same time. Stiles can't get enough of it, feels powerful knowing he's the one that made Derek look like that.

He hums softly and caresses Derek's back when Derek lets his legs fall down against the mattress, joints straining and hurting, and he wiggles a little at the feeling of Derek's cock still half hard inside him. Derek likes to stay inside for as long as he can, tries to keep his come from dribbling out of Stiles' ass and Stiles doesn't complain, lets Derek do as he wants because he's happy anyway.

“I feel warm only when I'm with you,” he confesses in a soft spoken voice. Derek is still readjusting them in a more comfortable position and he stops immediately when he hears what Stiles said, stares at him like Stiles just said something shocking. Stiles giggles, drunk on sex.

“Oh,” is the only thing that Derek says, blinks surprised a couple times and then kisses Stiles hard, like he's trying to say something else entirely and Stiles _gets it._ He gets it. His body responds with a buzzing feeling running through his veins, fingers that curl protectively around Derek's back, nails digging in. Yeah, Stiles gets it.

“I'm going to close my eyes for a second now,” he sighs whey they pull apart, smiles a little up at Derek with eyes half closed. He's really tired and his body is melting right against the mattress, feels finally okay for the first time in a long while.

Derek nods and so Stiles nods back, closes his eyes and falls asleep with Derek still looking down at him, his comforting weight covering him like a blanket.

**

“Oh,” Stiles says, pulling back from the kiss and looking down at Derek between his legs. “It's your birthday tomorrow!”

Derek blinks and then lowers his gaze to Stiles' lips, licks his own and then nods faintly. “Yeah, and?”

“And!” Stiles exclaims, jerking his head back when Derek lunges forward to resume the kissing. “What do you wanna do? I don't even have anything to give to you, but I don't know, I could try and cook you something.”

“And inevitably ending up with you blowing up the entire house? No, thanks,” Derek replies. Stiles makes an affronted gasp and pinches one of Derek's nipples in retaliation, making him jump and laugh. “Stop it, asshole.”

“Don't mock my almost non-existent culinary skills!” Stiles says, petting Derek's chest in apology. “Watch me as I'll never try to be nice to you ever again.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

“No, I'm serious, though. It's your birthday tomorrow _and_ it's Christmas. We should do something,” he says, caressing Derek's hair where they're falling over his forehead. Derek closes his eyes and pushes into the touch, hips fitting snugly against Stiles' crotch where he's perched over the kitchen counter. “Like, I don't know, have something that counts as real food at dinner.”

“Are you saying you don't appreciate _my_ culinary skills?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles snorts. “Right, you're a real chef.”

“Says the one who can't even cook eggs properly,” Derek replies.

“It was _one_ time!”

“The smell of burnt eggs haunted me for days, I thought it'd never go away – it was like having burnt eggs right up my nose,” Derek shakes his head and makes a pained expression. Stiles rolls his eyes and smiles fondly.

“Shut up,” he says, pulling Derek in and kissing him to shut him up himself.

**

“Actually, I have a very important question to ask.”

Derek sighs and doesn't stop his shoveling, the snow still falling rapidly. It's been three days nonstop, now, and Derek avoided getting out as much because it was useless moving the snow when it was still coming down so hard. Also, they fucked a lot and Stiles has priorities – Derek first and then the danger of getting locked inside the house forever by a wall of snow. Derek won.

“Somehow this doesn't surprise me in the slightest,” Derek says, unimpressed.

“Well, you know me. I don't even know how old are you really. You're turning twenty or forty?”

Derek's head whips around and glares at him with very offended and judging eyebrows. “I'm twenty four.”

“Oh, that's good. I thought you were, like, _thirty_ four,” Stiles sighs relieved and nods to himself. Derek is still staring at him, seemingly pissed. “What? It's the beard and the frown. And the aura,” he motions at the air around himself in a sweeping gesture.

“The _aura_?”

“Yeah, you know, you exude a very distinct aura of, I don't know, creepiness. Or, you used to.”

Derek glares at him harder and Stiles snorts, because it feels like it's been ages since he last saw this side of Derek. Sometimes he misses the frown, but he always changes his mind when Derek smiles.

“I'm going to pretend I didn't hear a word you just said,” he says, like he's making a huge favor to the whole world and he turns back to resume his shoveling. Stiles looks at him for a while, the way his body moves and his jeans hug tightly his legs and ass and he can't help but smile.

“Yeah, you do that, I'm going inside and jerk off to kill some time. Bye!” Stiles exclaims with mirth, hurrying inside when he sees Derek turning around so fast he almost falls on his own ass.

“What the hell?” Derek shouts and Stiles bursts out laughing and yelps when Derek runs up to him and picks him up to throw him over his shoulder.

** 

“I don't have anything to give you,” Stiles says, when Derek is just kissing his chest and belly. 

They're still completely clothed, even after Stiles tried to get Derek naked for the millionth time that day, and they spent what feels like hours just making out. He loves making out with Derek, kissing him until his lips feel numb and tender, but he also loves getting fucked. _A lot_. He discovered. A real cock is nothing like his own fingers, he also discovered. It's so much better.

Derek sucks a bruise on Stiles' hip, right where the bone juts out and pulls away with a loud smack, looks up at Stiles with a kind smile, leans in to peck him on the lips. “You don't need to give me anything, I'm fine.”

Stiles makes a face and shrugs the best he can whilst lying down, fingers running through Derek's long hair. “I know that I don't have to, I want to. It's your birthday, it's a special day, you deserve nice things once in a while.”

Derek smiles at him, but his eyes are. A little sad, maybe. Stiles can't ask him what is wrong, because Derek is leaning in to kiss him, really kiss him, deep and wet, his tongue in Stiles' mouth and he's too occupied kissing back, moaning when Derek covers him entirely with his own body, touches him everywhere.

In the end, Stiles gives Derek the sloppiest blowjob in the history of blowjobs and then rides him until Derek is a panting mess and his claws are threatening to cut through the sheets.

He whispers, “happy birthday,” against his lips when they're still joined together, Derek's cock hard and big inside of him, and Derek looks up at him with bright eyes and says back “yeah, merry Christmas,” complete with wiggling eyebrows that make them both erupt in drunken giggles and snorts.

Still lying in a post-sex daze, after having come so hard Stiles felt dizzy with it, they giggle and touch each other with tender fingers for a while, just lazing together. They whisper things and memories, they both talk about old times when life seemed easier – Stiles talks about his mom and his dad and how they worked together, how they were made for each other, how Stiles thought he and Lydia were made to be together when he was little, too, just like his parents were and how he just realized they aren't, in the end; and Derek talks about his family, how big it was and how his mom was a very powerful Alpha, how she was a natural leader and led the pack with efficiency and how he felt out of place when he became an Alpha himself. He wanted to do good for his mom, his family, but he couldn't.

“You weren't that bad,” Stiles says, his chin perched on Derek's chest, looking down at him. Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow and Stiles laughs. “Well, you weren't the best Alpha in the world, but you did as good as you could. Your problem is that you never listen.”

Derek looks up at the ceiling and kind of makes a nod of assent. “That's almost true.”

“ _Almost_ ,” Stiles repeats, sarcastically, a laugh in his voice. “But, all in all, you tried. I can see that now.”

Derek looks at him and then smiles a little, pushing a hand through Stiles' unruly hair. Stiles closes his eyes at the contact and tips his head into the touch.

When their stomachs grumble, they put together something to eat for dinner – Stiles puts some frozen pizza rolls in the oven and declares it a dinner fit for a king. Derek shoves a hand in his face and pushes him away. Then Derek gets up and starts putting together some spaghetti with tomato sauce and Stiles snorts so hard he almost brains himself against the kitchen counter.

They eat in bed and it's so good and simple and _perfect_ that Stiles just _has to_ suck Derek's dick again.

It's still Derek's birthday, after all.

**

Stiles told his dad he would be home for the end of the year, because they both knew Stiles had already spent a lot more days with Derek than he anticipated and he really had to go back. Even if he really didn't want to. Every time he thought about going back to Beacon Hills he felt a heavy feeling in his chest and he ended up gasping for air.

He didn't say anything to Derek about his anxiousness, not after what happened the last time he did, he knows what this means, he just needs to get used to it. It was good until it lasted.

So, he starts putting his clothes and things back in his bags, one at a time. He starts with his shampoo and body wash – because he started using Derek's after the first time they fucked – and then, a day before he has to leave, he puts his last two shirts and pair of boxers in there. He doesn't close the bag just yet, that would be too final for him, but his things aren't strewn around the house, filling up Derek's bedroom and bed – it's. Kinda empty.

He's alone in the house that afternoon, Derek went to Chris' to discuss something and he can snoop around a little without being watched, like Derek often does. He finds a shirt Derek wore to bed the first few times they slept together and. It feels so weird thinking about it, knowing that he's a little in love with Derek and even one of his shirts makes his heart thump. It's really stupid.

He still shoves the shirt under his own in the bag, and zips it closed to avoid thinking about it.

Derek comes back after a couple hours and Stiles is pretending to read a book laying on the couch, feet propped up against the back of it. Stiles looks up and Derek is just staring down at him with a half-smile on his face. He raises an eyebrow and Derek snorts softly, bends down to leave a kiss on Stiles' head.

“I talked to Chris, and we decided we're going back to Beacon Hills for a few days to see how it's going,” he whispers against Stiles' hair. Stiles gapes at him a little and then throws the book on the floor, grabs the back of Derek's shirt and hangs on.

“What? Really? You're coming back with me for a while?”

“A few days,” Derek repeats and nods.

“You're driving with me, right? You're spending New Year's Eve with me,” he decides, not giving Derek the time to reply. “Yes!” he exclaims, kissing Derek on the lips.

Derek laughs and then pulls back, gets upright and Stiles complains.

“I'm packing for a couple of days, not any more,” he says, walking towards the stairs to his bedroom.

Stiles doesn't really listen to him and gets up too, to follow him, says, “Where you'll be staying?”

And Derek is already putting some shirts and a pair of jeans in a bag, replies without looking up. “At the loft.”

Stiles mouth forms a surprised _O_ shape, scratches at his chin. “Oh, I thought you weren't staying there anymore, I don't know. Were not paying rent, maybe.”

Derek zips his bag up and nods. “I'm not, I own the building.”

“Dude, you're loaded,” Stiles gapes at him. “It explains the expensive car and the fashion sense.”

Derek frowns at him and then rolls his eyes.

“You say the weirdest things sometimes,” Derek says and Stiles shrugs, used to hearing that.

“Say something I don't know,” he laughs a little bitterly and Derek shakes his head, walks up to him and pushes him against the wall, runs the tip of his nose against Stiles' and then smiles.

“I don't really mind,” he murmurs.

**

That's why Derek is in Stiles' Jeep, driving, and Chris is following them with his own car, the next day. The weather seems to have settled for a while, gray sky but no snow.

And Stiles is in a _foul_ mood.

He woke up with a weird feeling in his stomach and didn't even talk to Derek all morning, just grabbed his bags and put them in the car. He's sad and tired and he didn't sleep well that night, so he's also cranky. Derek sat in the driver's seat and Stiles didn't even say anything, just grumbled a little and sat in the passenger seat and let Derek do as he wanted.

He's been looking out the window for a couple of hours, when he feels Derek settling a warm hand on the nape of his neck and he sighs deeply.

“Are you okay?” Derek asks and Stiles shrugs.

“Yeah.”

“Okay,” Derek says and just leaves his hand there, rubs his thumb back and forth on Stiles' skin.

Stiles looks back at him from the corner of his eye, looks at him for a few moments to imprint this moment in his memory forever; Derek driving his car with the snow reflecting the gray sunlight and making his eyes seem an impossible array of colors, pale and bright and so green, with long dark lashes and a handsome face. He wants to just remember the sure movements of his fingers on the steering wheel and the way his body is sitting relaxed against the back of the seat. Mundane things that seem to speak loudly in the silence of the car, the frenzied drumming of his heart as the only noise accompanying them.

He ends up falling asleep with his face tucked against the touch of Derek's hand and a heavy chest.

** 

They get a room in a motel along the way. It's really late and they're all tired and Chris nods at them without even looking before he's closing the door of his own room behind himself and Derek and Stiles are doing the same.

It's a pretty cheap motel, but they're just looking for a place to sleep, nothing fancy, so this is okay for the night. They just get undressed and fall together under the covers, Derek curling around Stiles as usual and falling right asleep. Stiles tries to. He closes his eyes and breathes deeply, calms himself down as much as he can and melts against Derek's body but he just can't.

The knot in his throat doesn't bulge.

**

At least he doesn't dream this time.

**

Beacon Hills is warm and there's no snow, no rain, but it's still gray and full of memories, he feels overcome with an almost irrational feeling of dread washing over him, chilling him to his bones, makes it hard to breathe. Stiles understands why Derek doesn't want to come back at all.

His dad is waiting for them when they stop at Stiles' house, already out of the door even before the car's stopped. He smiles big at Stiles and pulls him in a hug, pats him on the back and says he missed him. Stiles closes his eyes and hugs him back, says he missed him too and everything feels exactly the same.

Derek talks to the Sheriff for a few minutes while they're unloading Stiles' Jeep and, suddenly, he doesn't want to look at them anymore. He can't. Derek is going back to his cabin in the woods in a few days and they will never see each other again. This is how is gonna be. He just knows. Why would Derek want to keep in touch with Stiles, after they say goodbye? It doesn't make sense. Every beat of his heart hurts like the burn of spreading poison through his veins.

“I'm going to bed,” he murmurs and when his dad looks at him with a surprised expression, he just hurries to grab his pillow from the bags they left around in the living room and turns his back to him, leaves them without saying anything. Derek is leaving and he's going to sleep.

His bed feels too tiny and too big without another person to share it with – it's cold and unsettling, but he sheds his clothes, gets in without sparing a glance to his room and pulls the covers up to his nose, hides his face in his pillow. It smells like Derek's shampoo.

**

When he wakes up he feels even more tired than when he fell asleep and that is saying something. His phone is blinking at him from where he tossed it on the nightstand earlier and he unlocks the display to find three messages, two from Scott and one from Derek.

He avoids the one from Derek for a few minutes, doesn't want to read it if he can and so he pulls up the conversation with Scott: _dude youre back???_ is the first message, then soon after followed by _derek told me youre sleeping call me when you wake up!!!_ and he smiles faintly at them. He dials Scott's number and snuggles back under the covers. Scott answers after a couple of rings and he's happily shouting “Bro!” at Stiles.  
  
“Hey Scotty,” Stiles laughs. “I just woke up from the longest of power naps.”

“Dude, I'm so glad you're back!” Scott says, cheerful as ever. “I missed the fuck out of you.”

Stiles laughs out loud and says, “Me too, bro. You wanna come over and play videogames until our eyes bleed?”

“Yeah, of course! I'll bring food,” Scott replies and Stiles feels his love for Scott tug at his heartstrings, his best friend is the _best._

“Fuck yeah, something greasy! I really need to eat something that will make my arteries clog up _asap_ ,” he moans. “Derek is an awful cook.”

Scott giggles. “Curly fries?”

“Yes!” Stiles cheers.

**

Stiles and Scott have been playing for hours, not even stopping to eat properly – they're leaving greasy stains with their fingertips all over Stiles' XBOX, coffee table and couch, but Stiles doesn't really care, he missed this too much. It helps pretending they're not trying to forget what is going on outside these walls, like the town they're in isn't a beacon for everything evil and their lives aren't ruined and constantly in danger. It feels like they're still fourteen and Stiles is still lusting after Lydia Martin and his greatest concern is a bad case of acne, not the fact that he's been possessed by an evil fox spirit and his heart is always hurting and he can't sleep without waking up screaming.

Scott is pretending everything is almost fine, too. He doesn't talk about Allison, doesn't talk about what he feels and how he's coping and Stiles doesn't want to ask him how he's doing, can't really. He himself doesn't want to share his thoughts and feelings – he's not good at it. Never has been. So that's why they're laughing and playing Skyrim and eating so much junk food they're gonna feel awful by tomorrow. It feels almost good.

“Yo, how was staying with Derek?” Scott asks then, suddenly. He's not looking at Stiles, preoccupied with the game, but Stiles' breath runs short for a second.

He clears his throat before he replies, but then his voice doesn't waver, so he counts it as a win.

“It was fine, he's a neat freak, though.”

“Really?” Scott asks, incredulity in his tone.

“Yep,” Stiles nods and jabs angrily at the controller, annoyed at the little snippets of Derek picking up Stiles' clothes from the floor that are playing through his mind. “But the house was cool, real cool landscape outside, also. It snowed a lot.”

Scott nods all serious-like and then makes an affronted noise at the TV. “ _Dude!_ ”

Stiles snorts. “You're _so_ bad at this,” and then crows in victory with hands thrown in the air when he bests Scott.

Scott groans and lies on the floor in despair, controller abandoned a few inches from his feet, face hidden in the carpet. Disgusting. He's such a moron.

“I'm hungry,” Scott says, after a while, in the silence of Stiles picking another game to win and Scott still hiding his nose in the smelly carpet.

“You just finished a whole cheeseburger not even three minutes ago,” he says, throwing his controller at Scott's head. He catches it with no struggle and Stiles sighs, rolls his eyes. “There's popcorn in the kitchen. Go make some.”

Scott smiles all bright and big and gets up immediately, leaves the living room in a heartbeat to make food and Stiles falls on the couch, tired of keeping up a facade in front of Scott. It's not like he isn't genuinely happy to be with Scott, but he's missing the easier times with Derek and he doesn't know what to do with this knowledge. He's not used to thinking about Scott as one of the hard times in his life, he's always been his rock since they were kids. When Stiles' mom died, Scott was there to help him and ground him and make him feel better, but now. It's all so different.

Stiles grabs his phone from his pocket and finally reads Derek's text, now that he's alone and he's thinking about him – he's _always_ thinking about Derek, but he's promising himself of just. Just let it go quietly, it's been good until it lasted. Doesn't mean he needs to make it into a bigger thing than it actually was. They're friends, right? They will be friends even with Stiles feeling a hole in his chest when he pictures Derek smiling and bathed in pale sunlight. He will learn to live with this.

 _Come over to the loft if you want_ , the message reads and Stiles smiles softly to himself, a little sadly. He taps a fast reply to it before he starts thinking about it, c _an't! scott's here! ttyl!_ and puts his phone away when Scott comes back with a huge bowl filled with popcorn to the brim.

He gapes at it and says, “Dude, how much popcorn was in my kitchen?”

Scott sits beside him and snorts loudly, pushes the bowl in Stiles' lap and starts the game Stiles put on when he left. “There were like three whole bags.”

“And you actually made them all?” It _is_ a lot of food, they could probably ask Stiles' neighbors to join them and still have some left by the end.

Scott shrugs, not concerned by the quantity of food that's currently spilling all over Stiles' clothes and floor, and motions at Stiles to grab his controller and start playing. “I'm hungry.”

Stiles shakes his head but turns to the TV, ready to play.

“I'm gonna kick your ass, McCall,” he announces.

“We'll see, Stilinski.”

**

He doesn't go visit Derek at his loft.

He thinks about it a lot: when he wakes up after a horrible night filled with nightmares and tears, after his dad leaves for work, when he's in the shower and jerking off at the memory of Derek's mouth and the feeling of his cock inside him, he thinks about it when he's alone in the house. But then he just stays there, texts Derek back when he messages him and smiles fondly at something Derek said, but he's actually trying to detach himself from the other. He feels like it'll hurt less when Derek leaves in two days.

He just. He misses Derek, that's for sure. But he's also trying to do the best thing here, something he's not used to do, and he thinks it's going pretty well. He's responding to Derek's messages and all, talking to him when Derek calls him, but he's feeling petty and childish and he's sure he deserves a little time to himself. He's learning to deal with his feelings before he has to face Derek at Scott's party. He will be the bigger man and smile at Derek like he's not basically in love with him. He's not going to act like he did with Lydia – he matured a lot since then, he doesn't have a five year plan for Derek, doesn't think they'll be together in ten years, doesn't think of marrying the dude and have kids with him, like he used to with Lydia. It's so different, this thing with the other man. It's. Sometimes it's better, because he actually had Derek in a way – Derek opened up to him and told him things about himself, they were closer than ever, physically and mentally, and Stiles is glad he actually had the chance. But it's also worse, because he knows how Derek is under all the layers and the gruff exterior – he knows he's soft and bright, that he smiles with bunny teeth and his eyes crinkle at the sides when he laughs. He knows the way he kisses with all his might and the way he fucks. The feeling of his lips on the inside of Stiles' wrist and his eyes staring down at him while they were having sex. It's the stupid things, the way Derek reads his sister's favorite book because he misses her and how he just let Stiles fill his house with Christmas lights and then bought a tree for him so they could set it up.

It feels terribly like love. And Stiles hates it.

He's angry and annoyed most of the time, snaps at everything and everyone and he finds himself thinking awful things through the buzzing of his mind, but he's trying. That has to count for something.

He spends the last day of the year with his dad, eating crappy food (his dad needs a cheat day once in a while and Stiles lets him have a whole huge taco and tells him to have only a tiny serving of vegetables with that instead of the whole veggie taco, this is called character development, yes) and they talk about baseball and all the games Stiles missed while he was at Derek's and Stiles pointedly avoids talking about anything else. His dad is also avoiding some subjects – such as what is going on at the police station and which new cases seem fishy and Stiles sighs, deflected, but doesn't even want to argue with his dad like he usually would do. He just. Doesn't have it in him today.

His dad notices it, the way Stiles just stares at the table and doesn't try to get his dad to talk, shed some info on his work, so he asks, “you all right, kiddo?”

Stiles nods immediately, looks up at him and takes a bite of his taco, to buy some time.

“Just tired,” he lies, smiles a little.

His dad doesn't seem convinced, though; he stares at his son for a long moment and he looks older, more tired, too, new wrinkles on his face and a sad expression in his eyes.

“You told me you got better, but I don't really see it, son. You look awful.”

Stiles feels awful, all right. He's sleeping only a few hours per night and then he's dealing with his feelings, even if he didn't want to end up there, and he just wants to find a moment of peace.

“You don't look that good, too, pops,” he says, smirking. He wipes his hands with the napkin and his dad sighs, doesn't raise to the bait. He knows Stiles, knows when his son is just saying things to avoid a certain matter.

“Listen Stiles, I don't want to force you to talk to me, son, but I want to help. You really sounded a little better when you were with Derek. You also told me you were sleeping.”

“I was,” he says, stops eating altogether, pushes his food away with an annoyed hand. “But you also know that it's this place that makes me feel trapped. I need to deal with this and I will. I just need time.”

“Okay, I get it,” his dad says, and Stiles leans against the back of the booth, closes his eyes and wishes he didn't have to do this. Always explain himself to everybody. Talk about everything.

“I should go home and change before I have to go to Scott's for the party,” he murmurs, looking at his dad.

“Okay,” he replies, abandoning his meal too. “Let's go.”

Stiles feels like a dick for shutting out his dad like that, but he needs more time. He's dealing with things his own way and sometimes he just doesn't have enough patience left in him. He wants to say _I'm sorry_ to his dad, but he just gets up and leaves the diner, waits for him to pay for their lunch and follow him outside so they can drive home together.

They both remain silent in the car and the whole drive home is awfully heavy, so many things left unsaid between them 

**

Scott texted him that the party is actually at _Derek's loft_ just an hour before he has to leave to get there, and Stiles spends the entirety of sixty minutes actually getting worked up over nothing and everything at the same time. He doesn't even know why the fact that he has to go over at Derek's makes him so flustered, but that's what's happening.

The whole drive to the loft he keeps telling himself he's being an idiot and to stop panicking over it. Like, what's gonna happen? It's just a party with his friends. Nothing else. So what if he hasn't seen Derek since they drove back home together, it's nothing.

His hands are sweating a lot and slightly shaking when he parks right outside the building. There are a few cars there, too, meaning the others are already upstairs and he's late, but he's still freaking out silently and he can only wipe the palms of his hands on his jeans and talk to himself out of a frenzy.

He's cool, he's totally cool. He can totally do this and celebrate the new year with his friends and everything will be fine. Yes. He locks his car when he steps outside and then takes a last deep breath before he gets inside, sighing at the flight of stairs he has to climb up to reach Derek's apartment. He resents his whole group of friends because it's made only of supernatural creatures who _don't need the elevator to be fixed so they don't get up winded and feeling like they're dying after two floors only_. He needs to get in better shape, these stairs are killing him, oh my god.

Derek's apartment is on the last floor and he can hear music and a heavy bass sound pounding through the walls, when he gets there. The door is closed, but he doesn't even have to knock before the door is being yanked open and Derek is stepping outside to greet him. He's smiling and gathering Stiles into his arms as soon as they're one in front of the other. Stiles stops breathing and curls his own hands around Derek's shoulder and neck before he can even think about it, his first reaction at being held by him, now.

“Hi,” Derek whispers against his mouth, before he leaves a tender kiss on his lips.

“Hey,” Stiles says, kissing back, sighing at the contact. He licks over Derek's lips and then inside, closes his eyes against the sudden feeling, hot hot hot under his skin, sweating. He missed this. Fuck, it's been two days and he was already missing him, missing being together.

“We should go inside, Scott was waiting for you,” Derek says, pecks him once, twice, smiles at Stiles with his stupid bunny teeth. He doesn't step away.

“Yeah,” he breathes, pulls a little on Derek's hair, incapable of resisting the urge. He just wants to take him to bed, undress him and touch him, sleep with Derek curled around him, he just wants the same comfort he always found in Derek, the same feeling of _yes, this is right, it's okay_ that washes over him every time Derek is with him.

But he doesn't, he can't. He lets Derek kiss him deeply for another second and then pulls away, looks down to the ground when he steps back and straightens his clothes and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He doesn't look up at Derek when he gets inside, leaves him out alone and pointedly stomps over his own desire of just staying wrapped around Derek, forget there's people he wanted to say hi to, that he missed while he was away, that don't know a damn thing about Derek and him.

Scott jumps on him as soon as he steps inside, a cup of something alcoholic in his hand and a huge smile on his face.

“Finally dude, I was afraid you changed your mind!” he shouts over the awfully loud music, the thump thump of the bass shaking in his chest, makes him dizzy.

“Just got caught up with my dad,” Stiles says, smiles uneasily and grabs the drink Scott is handing him. “You know how it is.”

“Yeah, of course. Come, there's food over there, you hungry?” Scott puts a hand on his back and steers him towards the kitchen, and Stiles follows him, smiles when Scott tells him something and nods and shakes his head in turn when he thinks he should, but he's not really listening to him. He feels Derek's eyes on him throughout the night and he can't shake the uneasiness off, tries to avoid looking back at him every second he's not busy miming a conversation with Kira and getting to know Malia better. He fails most of the time, ends up following Derek with his eyes and he keeps wanting to go up to him and just. Touch him.

Malia is just like he remembered. A little rude, but cute. She touches him a lot, puts her hands on his arms and leans in to tell Stiles things about coyotes, and Stiles tries to appear genuinely into the conversation, but Derek is nowhere to be found and he can't help but asking himself where he could've gone.

“Hey, sorry, I need to-” he says, jerks a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the bathroom. She nods and smiles, turns around to go find something to eat and Stiles leaves in search for Derek. He's not in the bathroom, finds it empty, so he tries the kitchen, but he only finds Malia and Scott trowing cheese puffs into each other's mouths while Kira keeps score. He retreats before one of them can spot him and looks outside, to see if Derek's leaning against the balcony with Lydia and Danny, but he's not. There's only one place he hasn't looked and that's upstairs, Cora's – now Derek's room. The stairs are lit up by the flashy colored lights of the living room but as soon as Stiles steps into the bedroom, the only source of light is the streetlight outside. 

Derek's back is what greets him. He's peering out the window and not even turning around to look at Stiles. He's sure Derek heard him come up, sure his hearing is the best one of the whole group, so he's plainly ignoring Stiles – or maybe he's engrossed in whatever is happening outside.

“What are you doing here all alone?” he asks, walking up to Derek.

Derek half shrugs and says, “I just wanted to stay alone for a while.”

Stiles nods and, even though he wants to touch him, he puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and mirrors Derek's stance.

“Do you want me to go? Leave you alone?”

“If you want to,” Derek replies, like he doesn't care either way and Stiles tries to ignore the way it stings.

“Okay, I'll just. Leave you alone,” he murmurs, and turns around, tight knot forming in his throat. He's not going to let it get to him. He's not.

He's almost taking a step towards the stairs, when Derek closes a hand around his wrist and pulls him in. Stiles crashes against Derek's solid chest and huffs a startled breath. Derek holds his head in both his hands, and then hides his face into Stiles' neck, makes him shiver when he brushes the tip of his nose against Stiles' skin. Stiles stares wide eyed at the shadows on the ceiling and gasps when Derek bites him softly, feels his own hands clench into fists.

“Wait, it's almost midnight,” Derek whispers, after a few long seconds, pulls back from where he just put a really obvious mark on Stiles' neck. He should care that he's going to have to explain it to everybody, to his dad and Scott, but he just can't get himself to actually mind right now, not with Derek staring at him with wet lips and heavy eyes. “Stay here.

He blinks at Derek a couple of times and then lets his breath go, nods imperceptibly and his eyelashes flutter when Derek gets impossibly close and opens his mouth against Stiles', not really kissing him, just resting there, making Stiles feel like he's on fire, like he's going to crawl out of his own skin and melt right into Derek's embrace.

“I...” Stiles breathes, grabs Derek's shirt tight with his fingers and pulls, frustrated and inexplicably angry. His eyes are stinging and his nose is itching, the same way it always does when he feels like crying, and he's pissed off at Derek, at himself, for the way he feels, for what is happening. He wants to push Derek away and pull him in at the same time, he wants to stop this and avoid getting even more hurt in the end, but he lets out a tiny breathy sob and lets Derek kiss him when the countdown downstairs starts.

“Where's Stiles?” Scott shouts from the other room, concern lacing his voice. Stiles hears him through the others' voices, everybody is counting _ten, nine, eight_ , and there are quiet laughs and then someone says, “Should be with Derek,” and then the whole world is exploding in fireworks and shouts, confetti in the air and glitter and Derek is kissing him deep and hard and closing his arms around Stiles' waist to hold him tight tight tight and Stiles can't breathe, can't think, just puts his hand into Derek's hair and pulls, hangs on, sucks on Derek's tongue and it feels like saying goodbye in the worst of ways.

**

He shouldn't let Derek fuck him, that night. Shouldn't let him take his clothes off and kiss him everywhere, suck on his pulse points and leave mark after mark all over his skin. Stiles shouldn't, but he wants it so bad, he can't stop himself from opening up to Derek as he always did 

He kisses him when they're on the bed, Derek behind him, Stiles' head thrown back in an uncomfortable angle just to get to his mouth, and then Derek is pushing him face first into his pillow, spreading him open and licking inside. It's a buzzing through his veins and shaking limbs, feels overwhelming and too good. He pushes back into the touch and lets it burn him.

Fireworks are still going off outside and they paint the room in bright, fading colors, match the thump of Stiles' heart with bangs of their own. He's feeling fireworks going off through his own body when Derek touches him with his tongue and fingers. He's a mess by the time Derek pushes his hips against the mattress with a hard hand and then he's inside, feet holding Stiles' knees apart while he thrusts in deep, deep, until Stiles' is gasping a breath and staring with wide eyes at the show of pretty lights outside.  
  
“Fuck,” he whispers, feeling impossibly full every time Derek pushes in, letting a tiny _ah_ noise out, whimpering when then Derek pulls back.

He shouldn't feel like everything is amplified by the semi-dark and the soft moans Derek is making, the tender touches of his lips against the shell of his ear, the way he's breathing hard and fast and kissing Stiles' face. He shouldn't feel like this is some kind of first time, like this is not only just sex, but something else too. He closes his eyes and kisses Derek back, lets him lick into his mouth and moans with every thrust, feels a tingle spread from the tip of his toes, through his legs and belly, clenches around Derek and pushes back against his hips with his ass, makes him growl and buck into him hard and fast.

He shouldn't gasp when he feels Derek's dick get bigger and bigger inside him, shouldn't stare at him with wonder – Derek is staring right back, awe written all over his face and wide wide green eyes full of surprise. He shouldn't moan suddenly and hide his pink cheeks into the sheets, shouldn't even let Derek tie them together, push his _knot_ inside and come and come for what feels like an eternity.

But he does.

He lets Derek knot him and he _loves_ it. Muffles his moans with a hand and cries out when the knot pushes against his prostate, shakes and trembles when he comes hard all over the bed and he feels like his whole world just tipped off its own axis – he feels dizzy and the edge of his vision is slightly blurry and Derek is still coming and growling and pushing inside as deep as he can in tiny little jabs that make Stiles jolt, oversensitive and blissed out.

“Shit, fuck, I'm sorry,” Derek whispers against the nape of Stiles' neck, kisses it in apology, runs his fingers against Stiles' back. “I didn't know it would happen.”

Stiles tries to say something, but his tongue seems dislodged from his body, he can only drool all over the place and make pitiful noises. He's so out of it he doesn't even know where he is anymore, knows only that Derek is still inside of him and he's warm, and heavy and he smells like pine needles and sweat.

“Wait, let's get more comfortable,” Derek murmurs, grabs Stiles under the hips and chest, and moves them around until they're lying against the pillow, on their sides so that Stiles can breathe better and don't die from combustion. His front is getting colder by the second, sweat still running over his torso and legs and he shivers, moans again when Derek moves inside him when he grabs the covers with one of his feet, throws them over them both and then leans over Stiles to pick up the bottle of water on the nightstand, opens it and pushes it against Stiles' lips. “Drink,” he says, tips it so the water falls right into Stiles' mouth.

“Der...” Stiles mumbles, almost completely asleep. He feels Derek snuggle up against him again and run his lips against Stiles' skin. “I'm...”

He doesn't even know what he's saying but Derek is making comforting noises behind him, so he just melts completely inside Derek's arms and sighs, smacks his lips and lets go.

He's asleep in a second.

**

The next day, the air around them feels heavy and full of unspoken words.

They're gravitating towards each other even though Stiles avoids eye contact for as long as he can, tries to steer away from Derek's touch and mouth. He told himself that he would be a better person, that he would be mature about this and he's trying. He thinks Derek knows. He wants to ask him what happened last night, why Derek knotted him when it never happened before, what changed, but then the answers frighten him too much, he's not sure he's ready to hear what Derek might tell him and, for once, he's going to wait and read about it when he's alone, somewhere.

It still hurts, though, when Derek grabs his bag and leaves it beside the front door, ready to go. Stiles shouldn't still be here, it would've been better if he didn't spend the night, but now here he is, watching Derek walk through his loft with ease all while putting his signature leather jacket on, ready to leave Beacon Hills behind another time, ready to leave Stiles here.

He feels his chest sting with the knowledge that he won't have anything like this with Derek ever again, but he shoulders through it, pretends he's not saying goodbye to the person he's probably in love with. He pretends he's not even thinking about being in love, having feelings, anything like that. Pretends everything is the same.

“I'm just gonna go,” he murmurs, eyes downcast. He gets up from where he was sitting on the backrest of the couch and clears his throat, he's sure he's not ready to see Derek close the door of the loft with not even a spare glance, put the keys in the pocket of his jacket and forget about it. “I'll get out of your hair, so you can just do your thing.”

Derek stops him with a hand around his wrist, and Stiles lets himself be pulled in, incapable of saying no. His body wants to run away and melt against Derek's touch and so he stays perfectly still, stares at Derek's blue shirt and his chest hair peeking out from under it and doesn't say anything.

“You're not even going to say goodbye to me?” Derek asks, lifting Stiles' chin with a tender hand.

“Bye,” Stiles says, defiant, and Derek smothers a sigh that Stiles still feels in his chest, right against his own chest where they're pressed together. “Drive safe. 

“Stiles,” Derek says with a severe voice, leans down to peck him softly on the lips and then keeps staring at Stiles like he's trying to convey something, say something without using his words.

“What do you want me to say? I don't want to make this into a bigger thing than it is, really. We fucked, it was good and now you're going back to your other house, your other life. It's okay.”

Derek's eyes get a little sadder then, his eyelashes fluttering minutely, and Stiles shrugs, whatever, he's _trying_. He doesn't speak, he never does and Stiles is good at reading him, but he's tired of always reaching out for him, being the only one who tries, really.

“I just want to get away before you leave, so I don't have to see you drive away with Mr. Argent. He's probably already outside waiting for you, so it's better if you go,” Stiles tells him, puts both his hands against Derek's chest to push away but can't get himself to do it in the end. He leaves them resting there, not doing anything, just feeling the warmth of Derek's body and his heartbeat.

“Stiles,” Derek says again and he leans in so he can kiss Stiles again, can wrap both his arms around Stiles and hold him tight. Stiles kisses him back, angry and sad and bites Derek's lips hard, licks inside his mouth like he wants Derek to remember this moment, remember Stiles into his arms and his mouth, how hard it was and how angry he felt. He still hangs on and hugs Derek, still kisses him because he can't do anything else, because he's trying but Derek is here now and he won't be in a minute.

“Tell me just one thing,” he says, panting, pulling away. “Just one thing.”

“What?”

“Did it mean something for you last night? Anything. It was different,” Stiles murmurs, his voice getting softer on the last part. He looks at Derek's red, wet lips and continues. “When we fucked. You-” he doesn't want to say _you knotted me, it must mean something, right?_ but he thinks it's implied.

Derek sighs and stares at Stiles hard, just _stares_ and then lets him go, steps away and puts one of his big hands on Stiles' cheek and doesn't say anything. Okay. Stiles' eyes sting, sting, sting, but he's not gonna cry, he's not gonna make a scene, he'll _try_. So he nods, lips thin and eyes red, and swallows the feelings in his throat. Okay.

“Bye, Derek,” he whispers, voice gritty but not unsteady, and tries to smile.  
  
Derek's hand drops from Stiles' face and Stiles puts one foot behind the other and walks backwards to the little steps in front of the door, nods another time and turns around.

“Wait,” Derek calls, running up to Stiles.

Stiles stops immediately and, for a short moment, his heart stops, too, thinks stupidly that Derek will tell him something, that he meant everything he did when they were together, but then Derek grabs the keys from his pocket and hands them to Stiles. Stiles takes them automatically and frowns.

“In case you want some time alone, or. Come check on the building from time to time, see if anyone is squatting in one of the apartments, if you want.”

“Okay,” Stiles says and puts hastily the keys in one of the pockets of his jeans and then looks back up to Derek. “Anything else?”

Derek shakes his head and pecks him one last time on the lips. Stiles takes a deep breath and runs out of the loft, down the flights of stairs until he's outside and the chilly air is greeting him. His head is full of words and feelings, he feels like he's swimming and can't focus enough, his breath is coming up short and he just wants to go away, run and hide and disappear for a while.

He gets in the car and leaves.

**

He starts crying when he's already a few minutes away from Derek's apartment.

He's not even sobbing or anything, there are silent tears streaming down his cheeks and neck and his vision is blurry, his nose closed up, but he's quiet about it.

He doesn't know what he's feeling, right now. It's like he's numb, too many things together at once, even the streets are deserted, everybody still home for the holidays and still trying to get back on their feet after various cocktails and New Year's parties, kisses and one night stands and alcohol, so he feels like he's the only person in the world.

It's only 10.35 am, 1st of January and he's already regretting this whole year.

The radio is playing some pop song Stiles heard a thousand times already and he hates, but he's not going to turn it off, only because he needs the inane chatter and the stupid shit the people always say, he feels already cold and alone as it is.

He's driving slowly and he doesn't know where he's going, he just wants to drive for a while, spend some time with himself and get his mind in order, even if his dad is probably worried about where he is and what he did last night.

_I had sex with Derek and then he kinda broke my heart, dad, must be Monday._

This is stupid. He doesn't know why he always gets himself into this kind of things, why he always needs to be such an idiot when it comes to his own feelings. Isn't he able to do things halfway? He must fall in love with every single person that ever catches his eye, maybe it's a curse.

With Derek was different, though, he thinks. It was. It wasn't wishful thinking like his whole crush on Lydia – with Lydia he was infatuated with the idea he had of her, he thought he knew her better than anybody else, that he was the only one who could possibly be right for her, who recognized Lydia's intelligence and thought she was a goddess. With Derek, though. Yeah, it was real.

He actually knows Derek, now. Inside and out. He talked to him about his family and his past, Derek opened up a lot to him, told him things he never told anybody, not even to Laura or Cora. Stiles touched him, had sex with him, saw Derek's orgasm face and can still feel the phantom touch of Derek's fingers running against the back of his thighs. When he had to let Lydia go, it hurt but it was easy, because he didn't have to live with the memory of how her eyes crinkle at the sides when she smiles really hard or of all the times they spent just being next to each other. He had all that with Derek.

He's angry, he thinks. He shouldn't be, because Derek never once told him they were on the same page with this, but he _is_. He's so angry. And upset. And he hates that he feels this way.

He sniffles a little and then wipes at his nose with the back of his hand, tries to calm a little before he totally changes into a character in a romantic comedy or something. Then, without even thinking about it, he picks the keys from his pocket and looks at them for a second. They're heavy and glinting in the pale morning light, just a simple ring and a few keys, no silly key-chain, no tag, nothing.

Just like Derek.

Why would Derek leave him his keys again? Stiles was the one who asked him to leave him the key to his loft back when Derek left with Cora, but he did it because he knew he was the only one who cared about it, who thought Derek's loft was going to be of some use, but now. He didn't want them, he wants to go on in peace with his life, finish his homework and then start school again in two days, now he's going to have a remainder of Derek and every time he'll look at those keys, he'll remember last night, when Derek knotted him, when he felt like they shared something, of all the pretty fireworks going off outside the window and right inside his chest, at the same time.

He snorts, self-deprecatingly. That really happened. They were tied together for half an hour – Derek told him when Stiles woke up that exact morning, smiling sleepily with his face tucked into Stiles' neck - and still Derek didn't say it mattered to him, at all.

He grips the keys hard in his fist for a moment, feels the edges cutting into his palm and fingers, and then throws them out of the open window. They clank against the concrete with a series of tinkles like broken pieces.

**

He slows down suddenly when his heart starts to beat erratically against his chest and his hands are shaking where they're holding the steering wheel. He stops and looks back at the road in the rear-view mirror and he's panting, sweating a little and he panics when he can't spot the keys immediately, doesn't know where they are anymore, he feels like an idiot for even doing that in the first place. Why did he throw them away? Why?

His mind is flashing, white moments of blind panic that he can't control, and he stumbles out of the Jeep on uncertain feet and leaves the door open and goes back, hurries to where he thinks he tossed the keys and his heart runs with the tempo of his sneakers.

“No no no no,” he murmurs to himself, crazy with it, looking around to see if he can find the glinting metal in the gray light, doesn't know what he'll do if he lost them for real. “So. Stupid.”

He finally finds them on the side of the road and he thinks that he's lucky he didn't throw them too hard, or they would have ended in the woods and he wouldn't have been able to find them again. But no, they're lying on the ground in a heap and Stiles takes a deep breath, suddenly feeling better because he didn't lose them, the only thing that ties him to Derek is still here and he launches over to grab them, holds them tight in both his hands and wills his heart to calm down, his mind to focus back on his surroundings, calm down, try.

“Fuck,” he says, kneeling down on the dirty road, his Jeep forgotten with the engine still on.

He needs to try harder. And he will.

Without Derek here, it'll be easier. They are separated by miles and miles and for now, the knowledge that Derek wanted to leave him something of his – his keys, his building, his loft – that he wanted Stiles to step into a single piece of his life, is enough.

He'll put the keys in that drawer of his desk he never uses because it gets stuck; he'll know they're there but they won't be under his nose taunting him everyday with memories and what ifs. He'll get back on his feet, he'll be a better son, a better friend, he'll stop having nightmares and his life will go on. Maybe he'll find someone else, start a relationship that both parties involved want, graduate, go to college. Hopefully won't get killed.

Derek will get better, find someone else, too, maybe another werewolf, maybe they'll get married, maybe they'll have children. They'll be friends, still forever be friends, Stiles and him, always, but they won't fall into bed together. Won't kiss and hold each other at night.

He'll try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read about ADHD and I found out that some researches say that coffee (caffeine) actually helps with focus and the medication, always in small doses and always after consulting your doctor - I don't want to offend anyone, so I'm putting a little note about it.
> 
> The first sex scene happens when Stiles just woke up from a nigthmare and Derek is there, and he decides to act on his instincts and feelings - he actually asks Derek before he does anything, waits for him to say yes, but then pushes Derek down on the bed and they have kinda rough sex. Derek doesn't push him away, is pretty on board with this, but still Stiles thinks of himself like a monster, like he used Derek's body. They talk about it after, and everything was consensual, but still. Mentioning!


	2. burned out flames should never reignite

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He types _i miss you_ and he stares hard at the words for a long long time, until his eyes are watering and burning and he has to blink to let the feeling vanish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't watch season 4, so it doesn't reflect what happened in canon. I took liberties.
> 
> Title from Daughter's song Home.

  
**

“Stilinski, are you sleeping?!” Coach yells at him from the bench, throws an arm out to swear at him. “I could have caught that ball with my eyes closed!”

Stiles huffs and bends down to put both his hands on his knees. His lungs are killing him and he's so tired, he doesn't know how he's _not_ falling asleep right now. It's been two weeks of sleepless nights and awful days, so he's running low on energy and force of will. His batteries are empty.

He doesn't bother replying to Coach Finstock, the man already engaged into another conversation with Greenberg and he's currently telling Greenberg he should stop showing up at school altogether if his ambition in life is to give him white hair.

“You should probably sit down,” Scott's shadow says, next to Stiles' feet. Strong arms close around his waist and help him up. The world spins for a scary second and then comes to a brusque stop when Stiles' ass finds the bench, two old friends reuniting. “Coach, Stilinski is taking a break!” Scott shouts and Coach just waves a hand at them and turns immediately back to survey the other players on the field.

“I'm fine, Scott. You can go back,” Stiles murmurs, while he searches for his water in his bag. He wants to lie down and die here, he's shaking with exhaustion and he thinks he might pass out for real if he really wants it a lot. Literally every fiber of his body, every single muscle, is jumping in pain and he can't even hold his head up, his neck is sore and his eyes hurt. Everything hurts.

“You don't look okay,” Scott murmurs back, leaning a little into Stiles' space so that he can whisper. “Are you still having nightmares?”

Stiles finally finds the bottle and glares at it instead of Scott and takes his time drinking. He half shrugs and then says, “Sometimes.”

Only when he closes his eyes. The other nights when he binge watches shows or movies, he doesn't dream. He just. Doesn't do anything else than will time to go faster, to maybe, maybe, fall into a dreamless sleep, to blackout completely. He wishes for a lot of things. He absolutely refuses to think about a cottage in the mountains or someone with dark hair and stubble.

“Maybe I'm coming down with something,” he lies, even if it really feels like he's on the verge of dying of the flu. Or the plague.

“You don't smell good,” says a voice beside them.

Stiles looks to his left from where he's hanging his head and finds Malia sitting close to him, and he never even noticed her. She's wearing a cute blue beanie.

“I'm sweating,” he replies, but then she makes a thoughtful face and shakes her head.

“No, you smell like sweat and human skin, but the bad smell comes from inside,” she says, but he sounds like she's not sure of what she's really saying. At least it's two of them.

“Yeah,” Scott intervenes, “you smell awful, tired and sad.”

Stiles makes a face and thinks that he smells tired and sad because he is. He's fucking burnt. He feels like his phone battery when it's only at 10% and it's just a minuscule red line. And he's sad.

“Okay,” he just says, bitterly, and then throws the bottle he was playing with in the bag and gets up again. He almost stumbles into Malia and she has to actually, really, keep him up with a hand on his forearm, but it's okay. Practice is almost done and then he'll go home, take a long shower and then he'll find something else to watch tonight.

**

Text to: Sourwolf Dec 23 11

2:09 PM _i think i might reach the successful goal of four fingers today!! sucks to be you sitting there with mr argent!!_

Text to: Sourwolf Dec 23 11

2:10 PM [show picture] _three!!_

Text from: Sourwolf Dec 23 11

2:10 PM _STILES._

Text from: Sourwolf Dec 23 11

2:10 PM _STOP IMMEDIATELY._

Text to: Sourwolf Dec 23 11

2:21 PM [show picture] _its almost impossible to take a picture with four fingers up your ass but i did it!! if only you were here right???_

Text from: Sourwolf Jan 06 12

9:23 PM _Everything okay?_

Text to: Sourwolf Jan 10 12

12:35 AM _yes_

**

Even driving around town at night didn't appeal to him, now. He's not sure what happened in the relatively short span time he spent away, how it changed, but now, driving listlessly through Beacon Hills, stopping only for gas or a greasy breakfast, almost makes him feel claustrophobic.

He tried to slip away unnoticed from his bedroom one night, cellphone carefully pocketed and listening closely to every sound his dad made, but he couldn't even get himself to go down the stairs. He spent five minutes on the top of the staircase, looking down through the dark and he felt his heart picking up speed and his breath coming in short labored pants and he couldn't. Just couldn't.

So he started doing homework, watching shows and movies instead of sleeping. Avoided the internet a lot, these days. Even gaming felt too much, he couldn't really keep track of things. Avoided looking at his phone, even when it beeped and flashed from its spot on the nightstand.

He turned it off, too, after a while.

**

“I hate math,” Malia says from where she's sitting at the table. Kira looks up at her and smiles.

“I think almost everyone in the world hates math.”

“I don't,” Stiles replies, worlds slurred from the cap of his highlighter between his teeth. He underlines another sentence in his history book and then looks up at the girls sitting beside him. “What, it's true. Math is fundamental.”

“Math is _hard_ ,” Malia says, raises her eyebrows like she thinks Stiles doesn't get it.

“True, but also important.”

Lydia sighs loudly but doesn't stop drawing in her sketchbook. Stiles turns his eyes on her and knows she's annoyed, maybe they're ruining her zen space or something, he doesn't know, her inspiration, or maybe she doesn't want anybody dissing math in front of her. She has a pure love for the subject and Stiles knows it too well.

“I could help you with math, if you want,” Stiles offers to Malia, avoids looking at Lydia's drawings because they usually are something they need to freak out about later, or he feels like he's intruding on her private time. It's like a rule, or something. Never look at anybody's art without their permission.

Malia lights up like a sun and smiles at him with an highlighter poised through her teeth, making her look just like a human coyote. She's such a puppy, sometimes.

“ _Wealy_?” she asks, then spits the marker on her book, open on her lap. Stiles smiles, amused. “Really? Yeah, okay.”

“Okay,” Stiles repeats, nods a little. “Come to my house with your books and I'll help you. Tomorrow?”

**

Stiles is making himself a sandwich when his dad comes home from his shift at the police station. He puts the cheese back in the fridge and turns to him with his mouth full, chewing obnoxiously.

“Hey daddy-o,” he mumbles through the food and his dad makes a face while he hangs his jacket near the front door.

“Stiles, we talked about swallowing your food before you speak, do you remember? I think you were three.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Yeah, and every year after that.”

His dad nods seriously and steals the other sandwich from the plate on the kitchen counter and Stiles shouts.

“Hey! Make your own sandwich!”

His dad looks at him and takes a huge bite, stares at him like he's daring Stiles to tell him something.

“I had a long day at work.”

“I had a long day at school!” he reiterates, glowering at the second huge bite his dad takes. He feels deeply betrayed. “I'm a growing boy, I need to eat more than you do.”

His dad finishes chewing and then cleans his hands from the breadcrumbs, wipes his mouth with his fingers and then nods.

“You do need to eat more, but I'm mostly worried about your sleep schedule,” he says, turning around to grab a beer from the fridge. “I hear everything coming from your room, you know? I know you're not sleeping.”

Stiles sighs heavily and looks away, annoyed. He really is starting to hate everybody asking him things, telling him they know he's not sleeping and how it's not good for him. How worried they are. It doesn't change a thing, even if they tell him he should sleep. He can't.

“I don't know what you expect me to do, right now. I know I need to sleep and trust me, I do want to. I feel awful, but I can't. I'm really tired, but almost too tired to sleep. I don't know how to explain it, it's like when you're really excited for something and you can't wait for that thing to come, and so you keep getting winded up and winded up, and then the thing doesn't happen,” he says, leans against the counter with his backside and runs one of his hand on his face. “I don't want to take any pills to go to sleep, but maybe I should.”

His dad is looking at him, worried and silent. He takes a sip of his beer and then sighs, turns to mirror Stiles' pose.

“I'm not sure how much help pills would be, but we could ask Melissa,” he says with a soft voice, brushes his shoulder against Stiles' and crosses his ankles.

Stiles shrugs and then nods. “Can't hurt to try.”

They stay in silence for a while, just breathing in the same space, both lost in thought and Stiles is really trying to not think about Derek's arms and how he felt safe there, when his dad gets upright and leaves the empty bottle in the sink.

“I'm going to bed, son. You sure you don't need anything?”

Stiles shakes his head and then tries to smile convincingly. “I'm okay dad, go to sleep. I'll try again tonight, see if something changes.”

“Read a boring book. Works wonders for me,” his dad tells him with a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Right, War and Peace?”

His dad fakes a shudder and Stiles laughs out loud.

**

Text to: Sourwolf Jan 18 12

01:27 AM

Stiles licks his lips and stares at the blank box with the almost unreadable _type here your new text_ underneath the blinking cursor and he really wants to talk to Derek again, like he used to when he couldn't find solace anywhere here, but now.

Derek's last two unanswered texts are looking at him with judgmental letters. He can almost feel Derek's worry and Stiles knows that Derek wouldn't have sent him any texts before, he knows he always was the one texting first and asking Derek for advice or just to be the only one to listen to him for real, but now Derek is sending him messages when Stiles doesn't reply for days, asking him how he's doing and how are things for him and Stiles feels really shitty for avoiding him like this, but he's trying to get better before he starts talking to Derek like he's not nursing a broken heart.

Because that's what he's doing.

He types _i miss you_ and he stares hard at the words for a long long time, until his eyes are watering and burning and he has to blink to let the feeling vanish. He erases the message and then put his thumb back on the screen, types _my chest hurts more than my head right now_ and then he immediately erases that, too.

_i'm in love with you but i kinda hate you too_

_i dream of sleeping right next to you and that scares me just as much as the nightmares_

He keeps writing new messages of things he'd like to tell Derek, things he would scream to his face if they were together, if he wasn't afraid of the reaction, and then he erases them as soon as they're out.

He sighs and then locks his screen, puts the phone back on the nightstand and turns his back to it, pointedly closes his eyes and wills himself to sleep.

**

Text from: Sourwolf Jan 12 12

4:45 PM _Your dad is worried about you. Are you still not sleeping?_

Text from: Sourwolf Jan 14 12

8:02 PM _Call me if you need me. Anytime._

**

Malia is lying on his bed, books spread all around her, and Stiles is standing in front of the foot of the bed, trying to explain to her the basics of math. It's not really going well. She lacks like ten years of public education and it's not easy making her grasp even the easiest concept.

“If you add this to this, then, you found x,” Stiles says, pointing at one part and then the other on the page but she is still looking up at him like he's talking another language altogether. Which, it's only fair.

He sits down on the bed close to her and sighs.

“I think maybe we should start from the beginning?” he asks her and she makes a face, shrugs. “Okay, this is going to be long,” he murmurs to himself, runs both his hands over his face because he's tired and he really wants to sleep. “Okay, do you remember anything at all?”

“Um,” says Malia.

 _Great_.

**

They're immersed in Europe history when his dad pops his head in and stares at them like he's seeing something shocking. Stiles didn't even hear him coming.

“Hey, dad!” he greets him, gets up from the desk where he was slowly but methodically helping Malia understand the major events happened in Europe during the 1900s. A lot of maps were involved. A lot of growls, too.

(“Maybe you should be careful with that,” Stiles said after the fourth growl. He also started keeping his fingers to himself, worried she would somewhat bite him.

“With what?” Malia asked, confused.

“The growls, I mean, you can growl at me now that we're alone, but maybe not at school. People don't know about were-coyotes.”

Malia sighed and went back to the French Revolution and Marie Antoinette.)

“Hi,” the Sheriff says, frowns at Malia then at Stiles in turn, then steps in. “You guys studying?”

Stiles smiles at Malia and then claps his dad on the back, nods. “We started with math and then slowly drifted to history when it was getting too much for one day.”

“It's still too much,” Malia says, throwing a forlorn look at Stiles.

“Okay, maybe we can stop for today,” he concedes, because they're not gonna cover everything tonight. Maybe in seven years. “Do you need a ride home?”

Malia sighs and starts putting everything away, with bored movements. “No.”

“Uh, okay,” he says, faltering a little. His dad still hasn't said anything else since he walked in, so Stiles looks at him from the corner of his eye and he finds him looking at Malia first and then at Stiles, then back to Malia.

Malia finished putting everything in her bag and she's getting off the bed, stands in front of Stiles and says, “Thank you.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow and nods, “Welcome,” he replies, awkwardly putting his hand in the back pockets of his pants. “I'll-” he starts but then Malia is kinda avoiding touching him or his dad and swiftly walking away between them and out of the room before he can actually finish his sentence.

The sound of the front door being yanked open and then sliding shut echoes in the air.

Stiles and his dad are still staring at each other in confusion.

“You know,” Stiles says, scratching at the nape of his neck, uncomfortably. “She's still getting used to being a human.”

His dad hums and shakes his head, walking away.

**

He pants and closes his eyes, moans when the next thrust fills him up just perfect.

“Fuck,” he sighs, slides his knees more open on the bedspread and leans his forehead against the mattress. The angle is just right and the cock inside him hits his prostate dead on. Strong hands are gripping both his hips and he loves it, knows there will be bruises there when everything is finished, bruises he will get to keep and look at. “Derek,” he murmurs, pushing his ass back on the next thrust and getting a growl in response.

“You look so good, Stiles,” Derek says and Stiles feels his heart skip a beat and he has to push up on his hands and turn his head back so he can kiss him. Derek grips his face in one huge hand and licks into Stiles' mouth, sucks on his tongue and keeps fucking him hard and deep.

“Derek,” he murmurs again and opens his eyes to look into Derek's and they are flashing blue, beautiful and enticing. Stiles shivers and clenches around the dick in his ass, wiggles his hips and gasps loudly when Derek thrusts in particularly hard and one of his hands slips on the covers, almost loses his balance – Derek stops his fall with a hand on his chest and slows down his rhythm, pushes Stiles back until he's basically sitting in Derek's lap, knees splayed open and ass fitting snugly against Derek's crotch.

He can't stop staring at Derek, his face and eyes, he can't help but push into the touch and lean against Derek's chest, throw his head back and gasp out loud, caress Derek's face with shaky fingers. His beard is soft and scratchy at the same time, and Stiles feels his jaw move under his digits when Derek leans in to kiss him, opens up for him and moves his hips in time with Derek's. His breath stops in his chest and his skin feels prickly and sweaty, sticks to Derek's where they touch and he feels the air cooling the points where they don't.

When he feels Derek's knot start to inflate, he moans and closes a hand around his own cock, jerks off in time with Derek's thrusts and growls. He can't look away from Derek's eyes, piercing into him and he feels his own orgasm crawl up his belly and spine and he tightens his grip on himself and scrunches his face up when he comes with a jolt and a shout.

**

He wakes up panting and with uncomfortable wet boxers, sheets all twisted in his grasp.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, still short of breath, bitterly. It's the millionth time he dreams of having sex with Derek, but it's the first he dreamed of Derek knotting him. Usually his subconscious sticks to normal sex, sometimes blowjobs, sometimes he simply dreams of kissing Derek, of all the times he stared at him while he slept, the soft and hard lines of his body, his muscles and hair, long fingers. Simple things that make Stiles feel sick when he finally wakes up, longing for something that he knows he won't have again. But he always, always avoided thinking of the last time they had sex, the way Derek's knot felt inside him, big and hot, he didn't want to.

He grabs the tissues he keeps on his nightstand and wipes angrily at the mess on his crotch, tosses away the boxers and then crawls back under the covers, tries to get comfortable enough to try and catch some more sleep before he has to leave for school. He feels the sweat on his skin cool down rapidly and he shivers, tries to burrow under the sheets until only his eyes are out but it's no use. He's restless and he keeps turning and turning and he's getting more and more agitated by the second, he wants to crawl out of his own skin and he's getting pissed off at himself for everything.

He hides half of his face in the pillow, after a while, and stares at nothing, at the semi darkness and the tricks of light spilling in from the lamppost outside, the shadows it creates on his desk, the faint noise of his computer still running from when he left it on after he finished his homework. It's plugged in and probably already fully charged, and he stares at it for a long while, torn between trying to sleep and getting up to grab it.

In the end, he gets up and grabs it, carries it back to the bed and gets under the covers again. The computer lights up when he opens it and he bites his bottom lip while he tries to convince himself he's only going to watch an episode of Buffy and then he'll go take a shower, he actually pulls up his video folder and opens the one containing all seven seasons of the show. But then.

He taps on the Bestiary icon hidden in another folder entirely and he scans it until he finds the part about werewolves he's interested in. _Knotting and Mating_ , it's the title of one chapter, and Stiles stops breathing.

Werewolves don't mate for life, he finds out, not like everybody always thinks. He also finds out that mates aren't a one in a million chance, like the folklore say. There are a lot of legends that say that every werewolf has only one perfect mate for them, but that's not entirely true. To form a fully functioning mate bond, both parties must be completely involved in a relationship, must be compatible – body and mind and soul. It's not an urge, it says, no one is born with a predestined person in their life, the desire to mate starts only when one attunes perfectly to the other, only then a feeling, an urge to form said bond, starts.

It all starts with the pair sleeping together, touching more, spending more and more time alone together. There could be some form of courtship, too, where one or both parties exchange gifts or tokens of affection, but it's not always tied to a mating bond – the courting could go on for as long as the pair want, it could lead to the next step into a successful bonding, where the couple is perfectly in tune and is ready to commit to the last step.

The last stage of the mating bond, is the knotting.

Stiles almost throws his computer on the floor, he closes it so quickly.

**

His hands itch all through his morning routine to just grab the phone and call Derek, ask him every single question that's swimming through his head. He keeps thinking of what he read, about the mate bonding and the rest of it. He doesn't know what to make of it, what it means in the light of his separation from Derek.

Does it mean something, really, in the end? If they're not together, maybe it's not what he think it is. Maybe. Maybe every werewolf is different, maybe they can still form some kind of bond with a person and not be together.

He wonders if Scott and Allison were mates, if that was why Scott felt so strongly about her from the beginning. Or if it was a simple crush that evolved with time and thanks to their situation.

Maybe Derek and him are just two people who work really good together, physically – maybe, mentally, too, sometimes. But not on an emotional level. From the beginning they started their relationship coming from two very different places – Stiles, who never had any relationship whatsoever prior to the one with Derek, and Derek, who was traumatized enough from every single relationship he had to last a lifetime.

Stiles just went into it with both feet and a somewhat light heart, but Derek just stumbled into it, went with it because Stiles wanted him to. He just developed stronger feelings for Derek than the other ever felt for him. It happened before, it's not something he never experienced.

Maybe, _maybe_ , Derek felt good enough that his body wanted to show it, in its own way.

He spends his time in the shower mulling over this, still doesn't really have any explanation when he steps out and dries himself off with a towel.

He could shoot Derek a text, some stupid thing and ask him after a while, but he's sure it won't take him anywhere and he's too tired to try and argue with Derek.

He gets dressed and leaves for school in silence.

**

Stiles sits down next to Scott and throws his tray down on the table unceremoniously, sighing. Scott blinks at him for a second then pats him on the back, gives him his jell-o with a smile. Stiles takes it and smiles back, feeling a little better for the first time all day. He grabs his spoon and starts eating it avoiding the rest of the food altogether. It tastes like cardboard anyway.

“I love the red jell-o,” he mumbles around the spoon and Scott smiles brightly at him.

“I know.”

“You're _the_ best friend, Scotty,” Stiles says and Scott chuckles.

Malia flops down next to him and growls, hides her face in her arms and then pushes right up into Stiles' space. He looks down at her and then awkwardly pats her back.

“I miss deer,” she says from her hiding place, sound muffled from fabric and hair. “I need to hunt some again.”

Both Stiles and Scott frown and then look down at her in somewhat concealed surprise.  
  
“I'm pretty sure the meat here doesn't taste that different from what you're used to,” he tells her, pats her back some more in comfort. He never tasted live deer and he's sure he doesn't want to try, but it can't be that good. Malia whips around so fast Stiles flails a little and almost falls down in Scott's lap. “Whoa!”

She stares at him, pissed off, her hair all over the place and he's pretty sure she's going to eat _him_ for lunch.  
  
“Remember what I told you about controlling your powers at school!” he stage whispers at her, leaning back against Scott completely to get away from her teeth. “Try to calm down.”

“You must be your own anchor,” whispers strategically Scott from behind Stiles, who just makes an unconvinced face but then goes with it, nods and makes a flourish with his hand to demonstrate it.

“Something like that.”

She looks at both at them with that pissed off expression, but at least her eyes aren't flashing blue so it's not so bad – she can control herself, usually, but sometimes something triggers her and she just. Becomes a little more coyote and little less human. Stiles tries to remind her that she can't do that as much as he can, and it works most of the time, it's just that it's not so simple. He kinda understands.

“Maybe we should work more on your control,” he tells her and she groans, flops back down on the table. “Yeah. After school.”

**

Tex to: Sourwolf Feb 13 12

8:04 PM _saw a black dog today looked exactly like you haha_

Text from : Sourwolf Feb 13 12

08:31 PM _Funny._

**

He startles awake from a dream where he was trying to tell his dad about Derek – it wasn't going all that well. There was a mention of shooting, so – and he smacks his lips a couple of times to get the awful taste of stale coffee off his tongue, wipes his cheek from where he drooled all over his pillow and looks around, confused.

He almost flails around when he spots a dark figure coming at him from his now open window, but he's too groggy still and he limits himself to a mumbled “what?” and the worried beating of his heart.

“ _Malia_?” he says, when the figure crouches over his bed and then molds against his back. “What are you doing here?”

“Couldn't sleep,” she says, and hides her chilly face against the nape of his neck, puts her cold fingertips over his side. He shivers and frowns.

“And you're here why?” he asks again, because he really doesn't understand why she's here when she can't sleep. On the one single night he was sleeping, also.

“Feels good,” she replies and her lips move against his skin, make him bite his bottom lip because there are a lot of memories dancing through his mind – memories about lips belonging to another person, firm arms around him, a hard chest against his back. So different from the soft push of Malia's chest and her hair smells like flowers and her fingers are cold at the tips.

Stiles stays silent for a few long seconds and then says, “okay,” lets her stay where she is because she's not doing anything wrong. She's settled and is not moving, she's probably already asleep, and he doesn't really have the heart to tell her to go away.

So, he just closes his eyes and pretends to go back to sleep.

**

It happens again the following night.

And the night after that.

After the fourth time, Stiles just lets her curl up beside him and goes back to what he was doing before she climbed through his window – he keeps writing his essays, or goes back to what he was watching, puts subtitles on so he doesn't disturb her, pats her hair when she seems restless. They don't talk, she just goes to sleep and he mostly doesn't.

Stares at his phone on his nightstand and feels his palms itch with how much he wants to write to Derek.

 **

He's feeling restless since he came home after practice. It's like he can't breathe properly, feels like his skin is too thick and thin at the same time, smothering him, making him feel cold. He's sweating even though he's trembling and he can't sit still for longer than a minute.

He then spends half an hour in the shower trying to get the feeling of warmth back into his bones, but he's just feeling stretched thin when he steps out, skin an alarming shade of pink and breath coming in short pants.

His dad is moving around downstairs and fixing something for dinner, judging from the sound of plates hitting the table, but Stiles isn't really feeling it tonight. He hopes his dad bought Chinese, he could go for some shrimps and some dumplings. He gets dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt and pads downstairs barefoot, hair still mostly wet. He's going to try and catch up on sleep if he can. Maybe without Malia waking him up in the middle of the night to spoon him. He never can get back to sleep when she does that, he keeps replaying all the times he and Derek slept together and he never had a problem sleeping with him – felt safe with Derek's arms around his waist. And Malia smells good and she always goes straight to sleep, doesn't even try to strike up a conversation with him, but she's not Derek. It's not her fault.

The Sheriff looks up at him and frowns. “You're not feeling well?”

Stiles makes a face and shrugs. He sits down at the table and sees that his dad bought Indian. Still good, maybe the spicy food will warm him up a lot faster than the shower could. He grabs his fork and starts eating straight from the carton, until his dad slaps his hand away and takes the food for himself, puts some on his plate and glowers at him.

“Manners, all right?” his dad reminds him, handing the carton back to Stiles with a look. “You always end up eating everything before I even get the chance to taste some. Put the food on your plate.”

“Okay,” Stiles says and does as he's told. The food smells heavenly and his mouth waters.

They stay in silence for a while, Stiles enjoying the food with gusto and his dad looking at him from time to time. Stiles tries to pretend he doesn't notice his dad's lingering gaze, but he can feel it every time his eyes rest on him, make his skin crawl in annoyance.

“What?” he asks, mouth full of chicken curry.

His dad shakes his head and makes a face, sighs a little. “Nothing,” he says, forks some more food on his plate. “You look a little pale.”

Stiles thinks it's weird that he looks pale when he still feels uncomfortable in his own skin after the too hot shower, he must still be too pink like he scrubbed too hard, but maybe his dad is right. He still doesn't feel one hundred percent. Maybe forty percent.

“I think I just need to sleep more, I'm going to try tonight.”

His dad nods, still munching on some rice, and then looks up at him. “Is it going better lately?”

“Eh,” he replies, shrugging a little. “Kinda.”

“Malia helps, then,” his dad says, like he just knows and Stiles almost chokes on the water he's drinking.

He gapes at his dad for a long moment and then he yelps, “what?”

His dad rises an eyebrow at him and sends him a look like he's not impressed. “I know Malia sleeps in your bed, you're not exactly subtle. I'm not mad you're in a relationship with someone, you're almost eighteen, but I just wish you wouldn't go so fast.”

Stiles is staring at his dad in horror, mouth hanging open and eyes wide, his heart is doing somersaults in his chest and he feels funny. “ _What?!_ ”

“I hope you're using precautions. I don't need to be a granddad right now,” his dad continues and Stiles flails a lot in his chair.

“What?!” he says for the third time because he thinks his dad broke him, then he starts shaking his head fast, maybe he looks a little manic but he really can't help it, his dad thinks he's _having sex with Malia_. “Dad, we're totally not having sex. No sex is happening in this house, or outside this house. Or anywhere, really,” Stiles explains, voice unnaturally high. He maybe is freaking out a little. “We're not even together, we're just friends. I help her with school and like with being in control but. No sex. I mean, she's cute but I'm in-” he cuts himself off and he looks at his dad with huge eyes, he's not even breathing because _what_.

He was going to drop the L-bomb on his dad, what the hell. No way. He should just get up and go to bed now. Probably smother himself with his pillow. Stop this nonsense before it's too late.

His dad is looking at him like he's not really convinced, but then nods and starts eating again. Stiles is not so interested in the food now. “Okay, okay,” he says. “But I hope you're going to tell me when you've found the right person for you.”

Stiles nods and looks down at his almost empty plate, toys a little with the fork and the rice.

“Sure,” he lies.

**

It's almost ten at night and he's still wide awake. The window is open a sliver and a light breeze is sweeping in, calming him a little. He doesn't feel as suffocated as he did before, but he still can't sit still, can't focus on the essay he's trying to put together – the words swirl in his head and he spends the majority of the time staring at the blinking cursor on the blank empty page on his computer and then at the half-opened window, in turn. He's biting his nails, nervous, and he really can't write anything down, can't seem to grasp even one sole concept enough to put it down on paper.

The lights are out in his bedroom, the room half-lit by the computer's bright light and the bed is unmade, still from that morning when he left in a hurry with Malia telling him she needed a ride to school. He keeps looking at it, the bed, then at the walls filled with posters and Lydia's drawings he saved because he liked them and Lydia didn't want them anymore, and he feels like time's frozen, like nothing changed in a year when in reality he feels like he's another person. He doesn't know if the reminder of that Stiles that put all those things on the walls is a good thing or not, if he should start taking something off, if he should leave them there. It doesn't really feel like his own bedroom anymore, more like a room where he sometimes sleeps, where he spends the majority of the time watching TV shows quietly, where fitful nights pass much like this one. It's exhausting and jarring and sometimes he feels like he can be truly himself only when he closed the door behind his back and he's alone in here, like he needs to wear a mask around his dad and his friends, because they expect him to be back to his usual self, all sarcasm and funny faces – even if he doesn't really feel like that side is his true self anymore. The only time when he felt better was.

He looks at the second drawer of his desk, the one that gets jammed every time and he struggles when he wants to open it and he spends a few long seconds just staring at it, teeth still biting at the skin around his nails. The knob shines faintly with the pale light coming from outside and he moves a tentative hand towards it, fingers slightly shaking wit nerves. He grips it and pulls, faintly at first, unsure, then harder until the drawer opens with a quiet squeak and Stiles is breathing harshly from exertion. It's practically empty, a black pit of nothing, but there they are, the keys Derek left him the last time they saw each other, metal glinting in the dark. He takes them out and looks at them, swallows the knot in his throat that threatens to choke him. Feelings are dancing through his ribcage and he just keeps looking at them, feels the weight of them in his palm, closes his fingers around the cold metal and feels the edges digging in his skin.

Then, he gets up and closes the lid of his computer with a snap, bathing the room in darkness.

**

He pushes the door to Derek's loft open and looks at it.

Obviously nothing changed since the last time he was here, everything is still in place and the loft feels empty and cold. He pants for a little while, unsure if he should step in or just leave and go back home. He's not sure why came here, he just wanted to. The air is stale and stuffy inside and Stiles sighs and closes the door behind himself, eyes downcast and skin sweaty. He leaves the keys on the little coffee table beside the couch and goes to the other side of the room, where the kitchen is and opens the windows there, let the air circulate and change. The glass is greasy and dirty but the breeze is chilly and feels good on his overheated skin, calms him down a little.

He leaves the kitchen to open the one the bathroom and then stands in the middle of the living room for a couple of minutes, deciding what he wants to do. He could try to sleep on the couch, it doesn't look particularly uncomfortable or anything and he could do it, could probably fall asleep there, but then his eyes fall on the stairs that lead to Derek's room. He stares at them for too long, still in the middle of the half-dim room and then, slowly, walks up to them. He takes a deep breath before he climbs them, looks up at the pale light filtering through the huge window panels and then goes up.

He stops on the last step and looks at the bed. It looks pristine and untouched, like Derek made it himself before he left and Stiles just has to bite his lip and feels his shoulders drop. It's like no one ever lived here at all, there aren't photo frames hanging on the walls, or any poster of stupid bands Stiles doesn't even listen to anymore, or any drawings. The room is sterile and empty, just a bed with a dark blue quilt thrown on and white sheets, bedside drawers with two anonymous lamps on both sides and a closet on the far side of the room. Stiles opens the first drawer and finds it empty, so is the second and the last one. There's no trace of Derek here, no forgotten clothes or even stupid things like toothpaste still lying on the sink, there are only a few books Derek left behind and the cabinets in the kitchen still full of food that's probably gone bad and some old cutlery, chipped plates and nothing else.

Derek was what made the loft feel fuller, Stiles realizes. It's basically the same apartment Derek always left behind, with the same things in it, but now it lacks the most important thing, his presence. If Derek was here, Stiles wouldn't need anything else.

He lies down on the bed, however, and looks up at the ceiling, shoes on and phone still in the pocket of his sweatpants.

The pillows smell of dust.

**

Text to: Sourwolf Feb 27 12

12:12 AM _milk with honey doesn't work on me anymore. maybe yours was better_

Text from: Sourwolf Feb 27 12

12:15 AM _Still trouble sleeping?_

Text to: Sourwolf Feb 27 12

12:16 AM _yeah, sometimes. i'm doing better but you know. sometimes._

Text from: Sourwolf Feb 27 12

12:18 AM _Want me to call you?_

Text to: Sourwolf Feb 27 12

12:29 AM _nah thanks tho_

Text from: Sourwolf Feb 27 12

12:33 AM _Anytime_

**

“Where were you last night?” Malia asks him as soon as they cross paths in the school's parking lot. “You weren't home.”

Stiles sighs and nods, tries to smile a little but feels empty. He didn't sleep at all because he forgot his own pillow at home and the feeling of longing remained lodged in his chest all night, and now he feels too tired to pretend he's perfectly fine. He'll do it, because that's what he does everyday, but he just needs a little more time today. Malia is still following him through the school hallways and so he says, “I went out for a ride, I needed to clear my mind.”

Malia shrugs and replies, “Okay,” and leans against the lockers beside Stiles, looks at him with huge eyes, following every movement of his hands.

He doesn't want to say that he takes a relieved breath when Lydia steps up to them and tells him that she needs to talk to him, but he does.

**

One day he steps out of the shower and dries himself off hurriedly because he needs to go to Scott's for a meeting, needs to pick Malia up from her place and he's late.

He brushes his teeth and looks at his reflection in the mirror and he glances to where the bruises Derek put on him were. It's been a while since they faded away, but he still can feel them if he focuses hard enough. He can still picture them red and green/yellow on his hips and waist, the ones on his neck from the last time they were together.

His skin tingles with the phantom touches and he looks back down to his toothbrush, forgets about it.

**

The loft smells less of dust and more of him, the fifth time he opens the door.

It's still as sad as it was the first time, going back to it and finding it empty, but now Stiles is getting used to it. It's not a punch in the gut, now, but more a skipping beat of his heart when he slides the door open and there's nothing but a lone couch waiting for him on the other side.

He has a routine now, he closes the door, walks silently to the windows and opens them one by one – sits down on the couch with his pillow and computer and sometimes eats something he bought at the fast food down the street, sometimes he re-heats some noodles in the microwave and watches his favorite episodes of Friends until he feels tired enough to go to bed.

So he gets up, closes the windows one by one, and climbs the stairs. He doesn't stop at the foot of the bed to stare at the sheets, doesn't stop breathing thinking of New Year's Eve. He sheds his clothes and puts his pillow between the ones already on the mattress, hides his face in it.

Sometimes he jerks off at the memory of Derek's fingers on him, sometimes he doesn't stop his moans from getting loud because he knows he's the only one in the whole building.

**

He grabs his phone that night, lying under the covers in only his boxers and shirt and he feels particularly worked up, his skin too hot and too cold at the same time, can't seem to stay still, keeps moving.

Text to: Sourwolf 18 Mar 12

02:01 AM _my skin itches. can't sleep can't sleep can't sleep_

And then he throws the phone on the bed, kicks the covers away when he feels literally a rush of warmth pass through him and he starts sweating. He closes his eyes and sighs, legs splayed open on the mattress.

He jolts when he feels his phone vibrate, hurries to check who is calling him – even though he already knows – and his breath gets punched out of him when he sees Sourwolf.

“Hey,” he says, heart beating fast and already sweating.

“Stiles,” Derek replies, voice sleepy. He clears his throat and says again, “you still can't sleep?”

“Yeah, but I'm sorry I woke you up.”

“Don't worry,” Derek answers and Stiles hears rustling from the other side, like Derek is in bed, like Stiles is, and for a split second he wants to tell him he's in his loft, that he usually works himself up to an orgasm on these same sheets, but then. He stays silent and wills his body to cool down, trails the tips of his fingers slowly on the waistband of his underwear but doesn't slip them inside. Derek is still waiting for him to say something back so Stiles does.

“I ate too much before going to bed and now I can't fall asleep,” he explains. “My stomach is too full.”

Derek laughs softly and Stiles can't help but smile at it, bends his knees so that the soles of his feet brush against the sheets, tickle him.

“At least you're eating.”

“Yup, I look pregnant now,” he chuckles, pats his belly. “I have to find it a name.”

Derek makes a mmm noise, still kinda sleepy and Stiles imagines him in his warm pajama, hair all ruffled and pillow creases on his cheek. “Can't let your food baby without a name.”

Stiles laughs a little and turns around, hides his face into the pillow – notes how it smells like his own shampoo now, misses Derek like a pang in his chest even now that they're talking. “I'm glad you called me,” he mumbles, words a little slurred from the fabric.

“I'm glad, too.”

Stiles sighs and rests his cheek on the pillow, looks at the semi-darkness in the room and feels his body slowly relax, muscles loosening, and he knows he could probably fall asleep listening to Derek's breathing.

So he whispers, “can we stay like this just for a little while?”

“Yeah, close your eyes,” Derek replies, voice soft.

And Stiles does.

**

He wakes up early the following morning, so early the sky is still purple and pink outside and he feels well rested, still pleasantly buzzing from the dream in which he was having sex with Derek – all slow thrusts and deep kisses.

He throws the covers away and burrows his fingers under the hem of his underwear, pulls them down and closes his hand around his dick. Jerks himself off slowly and unhurriedly, licks the fingers of his other hand to slick them, trails them to his hole and toys with it, feels himself clench and unclench with the promise to be filled soon.

Comes all over himself with two fingers deep in his ass and Derek's name on his lips.

**

“We should have a party for Stiles' birthday,” Scott announces one day when they're all gathered at Stiles' for a quiet meeting. Scott is lying back on the couch with his head pillowed in Kira's lap and he's smiling down at Stiles, who's sitting on the floor close to Malia, her head on his shoulder.

“No, we really shouldn't,” he says, without even looking up for longer than a second.

Scott's smile dims immediately. “Why not? It's your eighteenth birthday! It's important!”

Stiles sighs and then closes the book he was trying to explain to Malia, with little to no results. She really doesn't grasp the concepts of epiphanies. “I'm not feeling up to it,” he says and it's not even a lie, he doesn't really want to party. Eighteen is just like seventeen, no difference. He'll probably spend it watching TV with his dad and eating store cake on the couch.

“But-” Scott starts but then Stiles silences him with a look, dislodging Malia's head from his shoulder and getting up.

“Really guys, don't.”

He leaves the living room and walks to the kitchen, where he gets himself a glass of soda and avoids his friends' worried stares.

**

That morning, the morning of his birthday, he wakes up with Malia snuggled up to his chest and she's already smiling at him, puppy eyes and wavy hair all over the place. Stiles can almost picture her tail wagging behind her. He can't help but smile sleepily at her and she pushes harder against him, almost touches his face with the tip of her nose.

“Hey, happy birthday,” she says, chin poised on the top of her hands. “Your dad told me to wake you up, there are pancakes.”

“Okay, I'll be down in a moment. Thank you, Malia,” he nods, runs a hand through his messed up hair and yawns grandly, stretches as much as he can with her weight on his chest. His joints protest and then relax, and he feels immediately better after. “You staying with us?”

She shrugs but smiles again.

**

When they get downstairs, his father hugs him tight and pats him on the back.

“Happy birthday, son,” he murmurs, still embracing Stiles, and Stiles hides his little smile in his father's shoulder, tightens his grip on him.

“Thanks dad,” he replies. “I was told there were pancakes.”

His dad laughs and lets him go, looks at him for a long second then gestures to the kitchen. “Yeah, I made your favorite. Malia, you joining us?”

Malia looks down at her feet for a split second, then up at Stiles, who nods. She smiles and says yes, walks up to the Sheriff when he opens his other arm for her.

“You like maple syrup?”

“I don't know,” she answers, looking kind of confused. Stiles snorts.

“Well,” John says, serious, “time to find out.”

**

“Can we at least play that new videogame I totally didn't buy you for your birthday, after school?” Scott asks him as soon as they meet after the first three periods. He's leaning against Stiles' locker and is preventing him to open it so he can grab his history book. If he's late for another lesson, Mr. Wilson is going to actually murder him this time.

Stiles sighs and then rolls his eyes, pushes Scott to the side so he can open the door. “Okay, but no parties.”

“No, bro, just you and me,” Scott says, smiling brightly, moving to hug Stiles tightly to his chest with an arm around Stiles' neck. “You're so gonna get it.”

Stiles splutters and tries to shove his best friend away. “Yeah, sure.”

“I have to go, later!” Scott then shouts, right into Stiles' ear, and lets him go. Stiles wobbles for a dangerous second and then regains his balance, holds on to his now half-open locker and glares at Scott's retreating back.

“Bah,” he murmurs. He opens the locker all the way and finds a little balloon inside, with a glittery “happy birthday!!” written on it, floating. He stares at it for a long second, then rolls his eyes, sighs loudly and grabs the little card attached to the end of the pink string. He doesn't even have to open it to know who put it there.

“Damn, Lydia!”

**

_You're one year older. Congrats. - Lydia (let's go shopping some time.)_

_HAPPY BIRTHDAY STILES!! - Kira!!!_

_Happy Birthday Bro! (i'm not gonna sign this Lydia) (Yes, you are.) – Scott!_

_HappY BirTHDAY! - Malia_

**

They've been playing for hours and Stiles is lying back on the couch and moaning, his eyes hurt and his brain is probably liquefied right now, when Scott stands up and says “I'm hungry and I want some Mexican,” rubbing his hands.

Stiles looks up at him from his weird position and raises an eyebrow.

“I don't have any tacos stored away in my kitchen, if that's what you're waiting for.”

Scott snorts and then fondly rolls his eyes, grabs Stiles by the sleeve of his shirt and pulls him up. “No, dumbass, we're going out.”

Stiles makes a face, then nods at where there's an obvious groove in the couch in the shape of his ass. “I'll wait here, you go and get me some nachos, too. Spicy.”

“No,” Scott says, “you're coming with me, I can't drive my bike with the food and I'm not driving your Jeep after that one time.”

Scott is still pulling him towards the front door and Stiles is not even trying to get free anymore, he's just begrudgingly following him with heavy feet and sighing. He hates Scott. “I hate you,” he reminds Scott when he grabs his car keys and phone and opens the door. Scott smiles innocently. “I hate you, I was so comfortable on the couch.”

“Dude, but food.”

“You're paying,” he announces, pointing a finger at Scott who just shrugs and nods.

**

“Dude, what the hell, where are we going?” Stiles asks, following Scott's directions. So far they just took a longer route to get back to his house. He really doesn't understand why Scott is making him waste gas over this. “Aren't we going back to mine?”

“Turn right here,” Scott says instead of answering him and Stiles glowers at him.  
  
“Scott, what the fuck?”

Scott just smirks and Stiles wants to smack him and then push him out of the car, but he just growls a little and drives. They get almost at the edge of the woods, pass the cemetery and then take the secondary street to get back to Stiles'. When he understands what just happened, Stiles looks at Scott, unimpressed and also annoyed, and the other one is just feigning innocence and Stiles isn't buying that _at all_. He knows what's happening.

He parks back in his driveway and looks at Scott with all the fake hate he can muster, making the other cackle maniacally and get out with a jump. Stiles follows suit and takes his sweet time locking his car, then getting up to the front door where Scott is waiting for him.

“Close your eyes,” Scott says with joy and Stiles groans.

“I hate you,” he murmurs, but does as he's told. Scott steers him through the door with a sure hand on the middle of his back and then stops him a couple of feet inside the house.

“Okay,” Scott whispers to him, his warm breath tickling the side of his face. “Open your eyes.”

Stiles does and finds all his friends in the middle of the living room, smiling at him with silly party hats on their heads and colorful balloons in their hands.

“Happy birthday!” everybody shouts, and Stiles can't help but smile at them, feeling warmed up from inside and loved. He looks at them one by one and he feels his chest flutter.

“You guys,” he murmurs, hiding his wet eyes in Scott's shoulder when the other hugs him with a roaring laugh.

He lets everybody hug him and kiss him and pat him on the back and he's not mad at them anymore for throwing him a party. He's smiling and eating cake and drinking and he feels okay.

Okay.

**

He's standing against the wall with yet another piece of cake in hand, eating like there's no tomorrow, and snickering with Lydia about something when Scott joins them and hugs Stiles again, tight tight tight and Stiles hugs him back, plastic fork in one hand and almost empty plate in the other, and he loves them all so much he feels stupid now for not wanting them to celebrate with him.

He's also feeling pleasantly buzzed from all the alcohol he drank since his father left for a well-timed shift, and he's all loose-limbed and smiley, feeling lighter than he has in months, now.

Scott ruffles his hair and looks Stiles in the eyes, throws one arm around Stiles' shoulders and leans against him. He's warm and he smells faintly of booze and sugar.  
  
“I called Derek last week to check up on him and we talked about you and so I told him about the party and that if he wanted to come he was welcome to, but he said he couldn't. So,” he says looking at the living room at large, at first, and then up into Stiles' eyes. He's half-smiling, a little sad. Maybe because he wanted Derek to come, Stiles doesn't really know. Then.

Stiles stops smiling in a matter of seconds when the words register, he blinks a couple of times and looks down at his half eaten cake, then he licks his bottom lip.

“Okay,” he replies, voice soft and eyes downcast. He shrugs like it's no big deal and smiles again, and Scott smiles too, even if he's looking at Stiles with a weird expression. Lydia is looking at him too, frowning a little, and Stiles clears his throat, pushes away from the wall and leaves the cake on the table, spins around to laugh at the two of them. “I have to go to the bathroom,” he announces. “You know, alcohol and all.”

He leaves the room and climbs the stairs in a hurry, avoids looking at the others worried he'll find them wearing those worried expressions they seem to always associate with him, lately. Rationally, he shouldn't leave his own party and lock himself in the bathroom, but he feels like his nerves are on fire and he needs just a little more quietness – the music downstairs was okay until two seconds ago, now his head is threatening to explode if he doesn't get away for just a minute, breathe and calm down. He splashes his face with some water and looks at his reflection in the mirror, the same exact face that's been staring back at him for quite a while now, all pale cheeks and hollowed eyes and he doesn't like himself anymore – never did, really, but now it feels like everyday he's looking at a stranger he never stops meeting. He feels detached from everything, but also, everything affects him grandly, like even the stupidest thing could shake him right now. There's an image in his head, of the quiet surface of the lake behind Derek's house, flat and undisturbed, reflecting the sky and the scenery around them – but then, when he threw a rock at it, the surface was broken by firstly a little ring, then another one a little bigger, then another and another and another. He does feel like all those little rings, all those little things that normally wouldn't faze him, keep turning into huge problems that make him lose sleep and feel empty.

Until a few months ago, it wouldn't have mattered that Derek wasn't at his birthday party – he wouldn't have cared at all. He would've shrugged at it and kept going, but now it feels like getting punched in the gut every time he thinks about it.

He licks his lips and closes the tap on the sink, cutting off the stream. Little droplets of water are falling from his eyelashes and the tip of his nose and chin, wetting his shirt in dark red smudges, but he doesn't care. He doesn't dry himself off, he just takes a deep breath and sits on the edge of the tub, looking down at his hands, fingers unsteady.

He grabs his phone from one of the pockets of his jeans and unlocks it, taps on the little envelope icon on the display to re-read the last message Derek sent him just that morning. _Happy birthday Stiles, hope it's a great one. I'll call you when you're free._ and feels so so stupid. He thinks back on how he smiled when he read it that morning, thinks of Derek's voice the other night when Derek called him while he was sleeping at Derek's loft for the third time that week and how he still feels that stupid fluttering in his chest when he can't stop replaying the last time they fucked, every time he fingers himself open on those same sheets in that same bedroom.

He taps on the contact name and then the phone icon. He's not sure what he's gonna say if Derek picks up, but his hands are shaking and he feels a huge knot lodged in his throat and he can't think straight – he knows he just wants to hear why Derek couldn't even tell him he didn't want to see him again. It's not like he didn't know, but up until now, he kind of hoped, a little, that-

“Stiles,” Derek answers, voice soft. Stiles feels a shiver run down his spine, hates him already a little more. “Happy birthday.”

Stiles snorts wetly and taps on his left knee with nervous fingers, his foot going up and down in a frustrated motion. He looks down at the fast tempo he's playing on his knee-cap and then says, “yeah, right.”

There's a long moment of silence from the other side, but then Derek replies, “what happened?” in a confused voice.

“I know you don't want to come back here,” he starts, chest tight and barely contained energy. His voice sounds ruined already and he's not even crying, not really, but he just feels. Done. “And I'm not asking you to, it's. Scott told me he asked you if you wanted to come to my birthday party and you said no. Was it really that bad coming here and celebrate with me? Celebrate the fact that we're still here and alive and I'm turning eighteen?” he continues, folding in on himself, elbows on his knees and face hidden in one hand. “You couldn't even tell me? You just sent me a message and said nothing,” he snorts, self deprecatingly. “I don't even know why I'm surprised anymore. Are you worried I'd try something with you again? I can control myself, you know, even if you don't think so. I don't know why I'm so mad right know.”

Derek listens to him until Stiles runs out of breath and his eyes sting. He doesn't say anything until Stiles is done and then there's still a minute of deafening silence between them, one that almost suffocates Stiles while he waits for Derek to say anything at all.

“Stiles,” he starts, voice soft and so different from Stiles'. “I'm not worried about you.”

Stiles frowns and stops breathing for a millisecond.

“What do you mean?” he has to ask.

“It's not _you_ I'm worried about,” Derek repeats, with a strange voice and Stiles bites his lips, tries not to read too much into it.

“You mean yourself?”

Derek is quiet on the other side and Stiles chews on his nails for as long as it takes for him to reply, because he's not going to let this go. Not if he can.

“You keep telling me you're going on, and I know you are. I know you're with Malia and I'm glad that you found someone your own age, who can understand you and-”

“No,” he interrupts him, has to stop that nonsense because he can't listen to it anymore. “I'm not with Malia, we're just friends. Yeah, I thought for a while _'maybe'_ when I was with her, but I just can't. Not now, at least. Maybe in a few months, yes, maybe I could start something with her, but not now,” Stiles says with vehemence, and Derek is silent. “I'm still,” he has to take a deep breath before he can continue, because his heart is beating so fast he feels dizzy. He lowers his voice until it's almost a whisper. “I'm still pretty much in love with you.” There's a faint gush of air from Derek and Stiles can hear almost a shakiness to it. “And sometimes I wonder if you don't feel something for me, too,” Stiles adds, sliding down the tub's edge until he's sitting on the floor with his back against it. He closes his eyes and sighs, feeling too drunk and too sober at the same time. “I read about the knotting thing one night and then I kept thinking about that night, I dream about it, how it felt and what I think it means but then – then you left me here and I don't know anymore.”

“Things are complicated,” Derek says after a while, voice rougher than it was before Stiles' outburst.

“Yeah, no shit,” Stiles replies, sarcastic, and kicks one of the cabinets a little in annoyance. “Listen, I'm not asking you to express your undying love for me. I know, all right. Things are complicated, I'm too young, you're too damaged, you're not interested. I _get it_. Believe me. But I'm drunk, a little, and I think about you nearly every minute every day and. I got angry when Scott told me you didn't want to see me.”

“Stiles, I want to see you, but.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says, final, tone clipped. “I should get back to the party. The cake is waiting for me. And the alcohol,” he adds, getting up from his crouched position. “This is the last time I call you, I won't bother you anymore.”

“Stiles.”

“Bye Derek,” he murmurs, cutting the other off, and then waits just a beat before he hangs up, listens to Derek's breathing and tries to store every single detail he can remember in his mind.

He looks down at his light up phone for a while and then sighs, shakily, before he opens the door, the lock clicking loudly in the semi-quiet of the upper floor. On the other side, Scott is waiting for him sitting against the wall, legs stretched out in front of him and hands in his lap. Stiles starts and flails a little when he spots him, but then frowns when he sees Scott's expression.

They look at each other for a long time, until Stiles understands that Scott must've listened in on his conversation, probably when he came up looking for him, and knows he should be angry for this invasion of privacy, but he can't. He doesn't have it in him anymore. Not when Scott is looking at him with a sort of sad smile on his lips.

Scott gets up slowly and then nods, puts a hand at the nape of Stiles' neck like he understands.

Stiles' shoulders sag in relief and lets Scott hug him, hides his face in his best friend's neck and just stays there for a little while.

“The party just kind of faded without you,” Scott says to him softly, fingers slowly petting Stiles' hair. “Malia wanted to stay here with you but I told her to go home.”

“Thanks,” Stiles murmurs into Scott's shoulder, words smudged against the flannel of his shirt.

“Lydia was so pissed that she had to drive Malia home,” Scott adds and Stiles snorts, because everyone knows that Lydia just kind of tolerates Malia on a good day and practically ignores her on a normal one, so it's a wonder how Scott managed to convince Lydia to spend even ten minutes alone with Malia in a car. “But now we're alone. You up for some pancakes, or you want me to leave you alone to sleep everything off?”

Stiles ponders at it for a little while, he feels especially tired after the long talk with Derek, feels drained of all energy, but also knows that he wouldn't fall asleep for at least a few more hours and he doesn't want to spend them alone, so he nods and steps back from the warmth of Scott's embrace.

“I could use some time together,” Stiles says and Scott smiles softly at him, steers him towards the stairs.

“You can tell me anything you want when you've had some coffee.”

**

The diner on Main Street is almost empty, save for some few people who have to get into work very early and are getting breakfast at 3 in the morning. Or maybe they're just only now going home. Stiles likes when it's not crowded, but he's also not the only customer waiting for his food. He feels like he's not alone even when he doesn't know anybody there, likes the quiet clattering of the forks on the plates and Donna making small talk with tired-looking people.

Scott chooses a booth on the far side of the huge windowpane and he slides into it with a small smile, Stiles following right after. He sits down quietly and starts immediately scanning the menu for something to eat, even if he's not at all hungry and he's not in the mood for something sugary after all the cake he ate at the party, but he's not ready to look Scott in the eyes and find him still smiling sympathetically at him.

They remain in silence for a while, both of them tiptoeing around the huge elephant in the room and still pretending to decide what they want to eat. In the end Stiles orders a coffee and some fries, just to have something and then stares out of the window to the dark parking lot and the buzzing neon sign over their heads that spells _OPN_ instead of _open_.

“Stiles,” Scott starts softly, and Stiles sighs because he knows it was going to happen – Scott wanting to talk about it – but it still feels like too much.

Stiles turns to look back at his best friend and, yeah, there it is, that small smile that he's been wearing since they left Stiles' house. Stiles would like it better if he stopped, feels suffocating under that smile.

“Yeah,” Stiles replies, wiping both his hands on his jean-clad thighs, looking around the room, then back at Scott.

“Listen, Stiles, I didn't want to listen in on your phone call,” Scott says, and he looks mildly uncomfortable for a second, looks down at the table and then back up at Stiles when he says that. “But you weren't coming back and I got worried.”

“I know, it doesn't matter anymore,” Stiles murmurs, runs the tip of his thumb under his right eye to chase the itch that's driving him insane. “Like, it's not important. Not anymore,” he adds.

“Isn't it?” Scott says, leans in to get closer to Stiles even with the table between them. “That's why you're looking like that. Because it's not important.”

Stiles clicks his tongue and looks at the too white lights on the ceiling, at the colored banner over the counter, everywhere.

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I told you, it wasn't important, Scott. It happened and then stopped happening, so that means that when it stopped happening, it also stopped being important,” Stiles rebuts, sitting up straighter on the squeaky fake leather of the booth.

Scott rolls his eyes, rolls his whole head, too, something he picked up from Derek and Stiles feels a pinch of something that feels like loss in his chest.  
  
“You told him you're in love with him,” Scott whispers, shutting Stiles up in no time. “ _In love_.”

Stiles stares at Scott, breath coming in short pants that make him almost feels dizzy. He's replaying short bits of the conversation he had with Derek - he wasn't completely sober, but he wasn't even drunk. He knew what he was saying, he just had zero to no qualms to _actually_ say them. He stopped being pleasantly buzzed as soon as he hung up the phone.

Their food arrives then, Donna placing the plates in front of them and sending them both a red-lipped smile before getting back behind the counter and Stiles drowns himself in the bitter black coffee.

He starts on his fries with a single-minded focus, eyes trained on the food and half-listens to Scott sigh and then the faint clatter of the silverware clanking together when he unrolls them out of the napkin.

“I just never thought,” Scott says, mouth full of bacon. “You never behaved differently towards Derek, not even when we were together.”

Stiles did. He knows he did, he wonders how his friends never picked up on it when he feels like he wore his heart on his sleeve – on New Year's Eve he barely could stop looking at Derek all night, he felt like his lips were so red and obvious when Derek bit him just outside the front door and when he left the party to be with Derek. It was just so obvious. But maybe it makes sense that Scott didn't know, Scott isn't the most observant of them.

Stiles snorts and licks his fingers to get the salt off them, looks up at Scott with a sardonic smile. “I didn't want you guys to know, I kept it secret for a reason. You could have found out, if you just looked at us a little closely.”

“I didn't know there was something to look at,” Scott replies, crumbs of bacon falling down from his grasp. “I just thought you were with Malia, not with Derek.”

“I never was with Derek, it was complicated but I knew from the start we weren't together. We fucked, a lot,” Stiles says, watches with glee Scott try to hide his minute flinch at the mention of sex. “We spent all the time in Montana fucking and it was _so. Good_.”

Scott doesn't say anything, just looks at Stiles with a tight-lipped frown on his face and Stiles goes on, can't stop, really. Gets more and more satisfaction seeing Scott's face get more and more pinched by the second.

“I initiated it, I wanted him to fuck me and he did. He helped me with the nightmares, I slept with him curled up around me and I felt safe. He did everything I told him I wanted to do, he celebrated Christmas with me, helped me decorate his home and bought me a tree. He stayed close when I felt like I was going insane. And we had sex, a lot, a lot of sex. But he never once told me we were together, I just fell in too deep, but this is just on me,” he says, swirling a couple of fries in the puddle of ketchup, staining the tips of his fingers with it. He takes a moment to take a bite of the food and lick the sauce off, to gather his thoughts in his head so he can express them better.

Scott clears his throat and fidgets on the seat, lets the almost finished piece of bacon fall onto the plate and the still intact eggs.

“So Derek was good?” Scott asks, voice unsure and soft.

“In bed? Oh, he was,” Stiles snaps before he can help himself and Scott drops his gaze on the table before he looks back up at Stiles, frown back in place; and Stiles sighs, amends with, “yeah, he was good with me. He had a lot more patience than I ever thought possible, never once did something I didn't want, never pushed me for something, if I didn't want to talk or eat, then he left me be. It was always me, me who always actually pushed for more – I asked him to come back, to be with me and I didn't think about what made him leave in the first place, what made _me_ leave in the first place. Coming back here would be the worst thing he could do, probably, and I get it. This _place_ ,” he sneers, throws the fries back on the plate, no longer hungry. “It was pretty selfish of me, but I am. I _am_ selfish and I wanted him to be with me.”

The silence after Stiles' outburst is heavy between them, even in the brightness of the diner and the chattering around them. Stiles doesn't want to talk about this anymore, wants to go home and sleep, skip school and just do anything but to think about Derek ever again.

Scott starts slowly eating again, cuts his eggs meticulously so that the yolk washes over the white of the porcelain and covers the piece of bacon that fell from his fingers not too long ago, and Stiles drinks his coffee, even if it's cold by now. Drains it and then motions at Donna to refill his mug, sends her a watered down version of a smile when she ruffles his hair.

**

When he gets back home, late, the old clock on his nightstand tells him it's 4:37 and he's so tired he could cry.

He strips down to only his boxer and t-shirt and gets under the covers, curls up in on himself and chases the warmth he can't seem to find anymore – the sheets are too cold and, even if the weather is getting less and less crispy by the day, he still feels like something is missing.

For quite some time before he falls asleep, he ponders if he should erase his entire text history with Derek, gets as far as grabbing his phone and unlocking it - then stares at the photo he took of the Christmas tree he and Derek decorated, all pretty lights and glinting crystal balls, the one he uses as a screensaver since before Christmas, and can't actually get himself to do it.

**

Some time after 7 am he wakes up to his mattress moving slightly and Malia shaking him.

“Stiles,” she says and he grunts, smacks his lips before he turns back to sleep on his side. “Stiles!”

“Mmmm,” he moans, because the covers slid down the bed and now he's cold. He waves a hand in the proximity of where he thinks Malia's face is and then pats the bed to find the edge of the covers, so he can throw them back over himself.

“We have to go to school, wake up,” Malia says, tries to turn him on his back again and he swats her hands away.

“I'm not going today, ask Scott if he'll take you,” he mumbles, eyes still closed.

Malia stops moving on the bed and Stiles smiles, more than ready to go back to sleep.

“Are you still hungover?”

“No, but I want to sleep and I'm not going,” he simply replies, hiding his face in the pillow so the sun isn't shining right in his eyes.

There's a long minute of blissful silence, then Malia says, “Okay, do you want me to stay with you?”

“No, go to school,” he murmurs, already on the verge of sleep now that he found the perfect position.

“Okay,” Malia repeats, slowly getting off the bed, jostling the mattress a little. “I'll see you later?” she asks and Stiles makes a noise of assent, doesn't move his face from its hiding place.

He's out, after that.

**

He wakes up only to go to the bathroom and to eat. There's still a piece of cake in the fridge and it's still good as he remembered, the whipped cream and the fresh fruit sweet enough to make him forfeit a whole lunch. He's quiet about it, doesn't slam the plate in the sink like he normally would because his dad is sleeping – and his sleep is light enough that a noise like that would wake him up in no time – and he slowly climbs up the stairs to get back to bed. It's been a while since he last slept so much, but he figures he deserves it and his dad didn't wake him up to send him to school like he usually does, so he's going to make the most of it. Also, it was his birthday yesterday, so that's probably it.

He stops for a second in front of his dad's room, opens quietly the door and looks at his dad snore with his mouth open, one hand thrown over his head and the other resting on his stomach, and Stiles smiles, closes the door again and goes back into his own room.

He queues a few movies on his computer and leans back on his bed to watch them, lowers the speakers until it's just a faint buzzing and puts the subtitles on so he can watch them without disturbing his dad.

He falls asleep after half an hour into the first film.

**

Life gets back to normalcy after that – he wakes up with Malia in his bed, or on his bed, gets them both to school where Scott will look at him with a weird sour expression on his face and Lydia will roll her eyes at them and Kira will be all stuttering words and bright smiles and Stiles would just try to be there. It's _normal_ , what he's used to and, even if he still feels like he's half a step behind all of them, he gets back into it.

It's weird that there are no signs of danger whatsoever lately, that there aren't Alpha packs that intend to kill them all, or Japanese demons that threaten to possess one of them, weird English teachers that reveal themselves to be a dark druid – but Stiles is grateful for the pause, he needs to get back to himself and relaxing is always good.

That's why, when one afternoon he's out at the movies with Scott, Kira and Malia – in a weird attempt of a double date – and he feels his phone vibrate against his leg, he doesn't think immediately of Derek. They're eating at the little fast-food restaurant in the cinema, Malia sitting close to Stiles, one of his arms resting loosely on her shoulders, and it's going well. Then Stiles' phone vibrates and he wipes his right hand on the fabric of his jeans, making Kira wrinkle her nose, and he grabs it, unlocks the screen. Stiles laughs at her and then looks back at the phone, and stops breathing.

Text from: Sourwolf 21 Apr 12

5:09 PM _Come to the loft when you can. Please._

He keeps staring at the little blue bubble, those few words jotted in black and he feels his whole world shift precariously. He lifts his arm from Malia's shoulders and puts both hands on the phone, grips it hard to prevent them from shaking too much and tries to keep breathing.

His fingers slip a little on the display when he tries to tap back a response, doesn't lift his eyes from the blinking cursor.

Text to: Sourwolf 21 Apr 12

5:14 PM _now? are you in BH?_

And he bites his nails while he waits for Derek to reply.

“Everything okay, Stiles?” Kira asks him, and he looks up at her, at her worried face and he nods, thumb still between his teeth. Malia is looking at him with a blank face, but he knows she's not pleased that he pulled away from her, that he should apologize and explain, but he's not thinking straight right now, can't seem to breathe and sit still at the same time. When his phone lights up again, he unlocks it immediately and read the new text.

Text from: Sourwolf 21 Apr 12

5:16 PM _Yes._

“What?” he murmurs to himself, pushes a hand through his hair. He feels too warm under the plaid shirt he's wearing, the crown of his head wet with sweat, and he sits up straighter when he reads the message, almost gets up from the chair, then sits back down, still looking down at the phone.

He doesn't understand what it means, Derek is back in Beacon Hills, but why? There's some threat he doesn't know of, maybe?

“Stiles.”

He looks up at Scott and finds him frowning down at him, blinks a couple of times so he can focus back on his friend. There's a faint noise in his ears, like a drum.

“Everything okay?” Scott asks again, motioning to Stiles' phone with his chin and Stiles shakes his head, then nods, then gets up from the table and looks at them all.

“I have to go,” he says, pocketing the phone and patting his pockets to feel where his keys are. Kira gapes at him and Malia almost growls, but Stiles can't stay there, not when Derek is _in Beacon Hills_ and wants to see him. He needs _closure_.

Only Scott is looking at him like he knows, like he understands what this is about and then he nods, sighs and nods and puts a hand on Malia's arm to stop her growling.

“Okay, go,” Scott says and sends Stiles a _l_ _ook_. “I want you to be happy.”

Stiles's eyes sting for a second, eyelashes fluttering and he sends back a grateful smile at him, bends down to kiss first Kira's cheek, making her splutter and chuckle, and then grabs Malia's face in both his hands, looks her in the eyes and says, “I'm sorry this couldn't work,” and then leaves a smacking kiss on her cheek, too, before he flies out of the restaurant and into the parking lot.

This is the last time he does something like this, the last time he drops everything just because Derek asked him to, but he figures he needs it – needs to talk to Derek one last time and tell him everything, hear what he has to say and then – everybody can go on his merry way, maybe with a battered heart but at least he'd feel lighter, after.

He parks in front of Derek's building and looks up to where he knows Derek's apartment is, and the lights are on inside, he can see the ceiling bathed in warm light from the street, through the huge windows. He sighs just once before he steps in and jogs up the stairs.

When he reaches the last floor, the door is already slid open, and Derek is standing in the middle of the living room, facing Stiles and the door. Stiles stops short just a few feet outside and looks at him, tries to find the different details in Derek's appearance and posture – his beard is shorter, so is his hair, and he's not wearing any plaid or boots; he's barefoot and wearing dark jeans and a baby blue shirt. He looks good, as always, standing tall in the middle of the loft, maybe a little paler than he remembered, but still handsome.

They're both staring at each other with huge eyes, hands hanging limp by their sides and. Stiles' heart is beating a mile a minute, and he's not sure about Derek's but he also looks surprised to see him there, just like Stiles is to see him back in Beacon Hills. He takes an uncertain step towards the front door and then another, until he's a few feet away from the other – can almost feel his warmth, or so he thinks. Maybe he's projecting.

“What are you doing here?” is the first thing he asks, wringing his hands together and then putting them both in the pockets of his jeans when he feels weird about it. He would hug him, but he's not sure how Derek would interpret the gesture, so he keeps his distance, doesn't crowd him like he normally would.

Derek is still looking him up and down and Stiles doesn't fidget.

“You look better,” Derek says, in a soft voice, and then looks Stiles right in the eyes. “Like you're eating and sleeping. I'm glad.”

Stiles nods and looks down a the floor for just a split second, before he looks right back up. “I am,” he replies. “I mean, it's not always easy, but I am. Getting better. You look. Tired.”

“I drove all the way here,” Derek nods, runs a hand through his hair and then takes just one step towards Stiles. He stops right after and drops the hand back by his side, and Stiles is hyper-aware of every single movement Derek is making, every breath he's drawing, every fiber of his being is buzzing with energy like he wants to reach out and just touch him. “I had to. After your call.”

Stiles frowns and takes a deep breath, tries to think about what he will say next, tries not to jump to conclusions or snap. He just. Breathes and then asks, “After two whole weeks?”

Derek stares at him, tight-lipped and intense, and then takes another step closer. “Stiles, I said things are complicated. Between us, but also there's something else that stopped me from just coming back here.”

“And what would that be?”

Derek takes a final step that brings them close together, and Stiles can smell that pine needles shower gel he always uses – the one Stiles himself used when he lived with Derek – and it brings back all kinds of memories, good ones, less good ones, and he can't help himself, he takes his hands out from where he hid them and closes them into loose fists, looks down at Derek's bare feet and then up to his face, feels his palms itch with want, his breath stutter for just a second.

“Your dad and Scott always call me, and they told me how you changed slowly, how you were trying to go back to your normal life and how you started seeing Malia. Let me finish,” he says, when he sees Stiles open his mouth to protest, say that he already told him about him and Malia. “I know, you and Malia aren't together, but it's not just that the whole problem. I don't want you to get stuck with me. I'm not the right person for you, you deserve so much more, things that I can't give you, and I didn't want to start a relationship with you, didn't want to have sex with you in the first place because I knew what I was feeling for you, but I also didn't want to take away the possibility of a better future, a better relationship from you,” Derek whispers, brings his hands up to touch Stiles' cheeks, cradle his face.

Stiles feels a surge of anger rush through him and clenches his fists into Derek's shirt, pulls him in with a hard snap and Derek doesn't even stumble, just follows the movement until they're flushed against each other and Stiles is looking up at him with heavy eyes.

“I, and _only_ _I_ get to decide who I want to be with. You don't get to decide for me, you can say you don't want to be with me for a number of reasons I actually understand, but not because you think I deserve differently. This is such _bullshit_ ,” he growls, fists his fingers tighter into the fabric and he hears the seams rip at the neck, but still pulls. Derek just looks at him, doesn't berate him for ruining his clothes, pushes more against him, hot and hard. “Tell me it didn't mean anything for you, and I'll leave you alone.”

Derek leans in until their foreheads are touching, brushes his lips against Stiles' open ones, doesn't kiss him properly but speaks right into Stiles' mouth, like he's spilling a secret.

“ _I can't_ ,” he murmurs.

“I'm your mate, right?” Stiles asks him with a trembling voice, closes his eyes almost completely and turns his head so that if he pushed up a little more, he could lick inside Derek's hot mouth. “I'm yours, and you're mine, right?”

Derek's breath stops immediately and his grip on Stiles' face tightens, his eyes flash bright blue blue blue for a second and then he's kissing Stiles, hard and wet and his tongue is licking into Stiles' mouth and he's growling faintly, pushing right up against Stiles with his whole body and Stiles feels that same old fire reignite into his veins, feels it run through his chest and limbs, and he whimpers.

“It's not the same for you, you're not. You don't have to. But _yes_ ,” Derek mumbles through the kisses, licks Stiles' lips while he speaks. “You're mine. If you want.”

“Yes, yes,” Stiles nods and murmurs, slipping his fingers under the hem of Derek's shirt, splays them on his burning skin. “Fuck, yes.”

Derek stops kissing him to stare at him, look him in the eyes, all intense and short breaths. Stiles looks right back, panting and with red wet lips.

It's like Derek is searching for something, like he's making sure Stiles is not saying that just because he wants Derek right now, he won't be disappointed after. Stiles won't. At all.

“I'm staying,” Derek says and Stiles blinks at him, confused for a second. “I found something, someone, to come back to. For a while. For as long as you want me to. So I'm staying.”

“Yeah?” Stiles replies, voice shot and heart beating fast fast fast.

“Yeah,” Derek says and then smiles that private smile he uses only with Stiles, leans back in to kiss him again and Stiles mirrors that smile into the kiss.

“Come on, take me to bed,” he says, laughs into Derek's mouth and pushes him towards the staircase.

“The loft smells like you,” Derek says, like he's amused and a lot turned on. “Did you jerk off in here?”

“Yeah,” Stiles answers. “I fingered myself after you called me, that night. Dreamed of you.”

Derek stops short when he hears that, growls and looks at Stiles like he just told him something amazing, and Stiles laughs out loud, sound foreign to his own ears after all that time and yelps when Derek grabs him and throws him over his shoulder.

**

They're lying on their sides, still sweaty and too hot after their last round of amazing sex, facing each other, and Stiles is running his fingers through Derek's soft beard and hair. Derek has his eyes closed and he looks peaceful, happy to be petted. Like a puppy. Stiles snorts.

“What?” Derek asks, doesn't open his eyes but smiles nonetheless.

“Nothing, you just look like a puppy,” Stiles says and shouts when Derek pretends to snap at his fingers, then closes both his arms around Stiles and pulls him against his chest, so he can growl into the crook of Stiles' neck. “You look positively tired.”

Derek sighs and then leaves a soft kiss on Stiles' skin, rubs his scruffy face against it, making Stiles squirm. “I am,” he murmurs. “I wanted to get here as soon as I could and I just drove all the way here, didn't stop once.”

“What? You drove for like twenty hours straight?” Stiles inquires, surprised.

“Pretty much.”

“You're crazy, go to sleep,” Stiles orders him, hugs him tighter, puts one of his legs around Derek's hips so he can hold him with his whole body and feel his warmth, their closeness.

“Yeah,” Derek mumbles against Stiles' throat, words almost slurred. “You're staying?”

“You can bet your hot ass I am,” Stiles replies, kisses the side of Derek's head hard.

Derek huffs and then quietly laughs, little burst of air against Stiles' skin.

**

Text to: Scott 21 Apr 12

10:56 PM _i'm happy_

10:56 PM _thanks bro i owe you_

Text from: Scott 21 Apr 12

11:03 PM _im happy if youre happy bro!!!_

 


	3. Epilogue. there's a light and it never goes out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And John thinks _Oh_ , and everything makes a lot more sense, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title from There Is A Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths.
> 
> It's from the Sheriff's POV this time, I hope you guys liked this story half as much as I loved writing it. I can't believe it's done, I started this in March and after months of struggle, finally I did it!

**

John Stilinski thinks that he's a good man, he's mostly rational and level headed – after he found out about the supernatural world? Yeah, he had his moments, but he's been mostly ready for it. He thinks he's doing a pretty good job at handling everything. Stiles is the only one who still worries him, a lot, maybe too much.

He worries because he looks like a ghost – well, looked. He's slowly getting better and he has to say, most of it is because of Derek. Stiles is been eating a lot more, sleeping a lot more, and he looks less pale and tired. John would like to say he actually helped his own son in any way, but he stopped understanding Stiles when he turned six and started babbling about the most strange things and running around the house like a little demon. It still happens more often than he would like to admit, even now that Stiles just turned eighteen and he's running around with a group of teenagers who are mostly werewolves. He still needs a moment to himself when he thinks _werewolves,_ like they're something to discuss at dinner – or quietly in his office, with the door closed.

So, when he gets back inside the house after lunch – clothes and hair still smelling like grilled meat and smoke – he just wants to drink a beer in peace and pass out for half an hour on his comfortable chair in front of the TV. He walks blindly through the backdoor and right across the hallway, still trying to recover from the light outside, and he stops right before the kitchen door.

He peers inside and finds Derek and Stiles quietly putting away some leftovers from the huge barbecue they just had in their backyard. Most of his deputies left already, some are still wandering about, still enjoying the last dregs of beer and chattering, but John is too hot and tired right now to stand another minute under the scorching sun. He's not twenty anymore.

That's when he sees his son with Derek. They're comfortable in each other's presence, like they're used to being close – maybe it makes sense seeing they lived in the same house for a month – but there's an atmosphere in the room, peaceful, and John can't help but observe them.

Stiles is putting plates away in the fridge, covered in cellophane and piled precariously on the highest shelf, and Derek is filling the sink with water, slipping some dishes and cutlery in.

“You know you don't have to, right?” Stiles asks Derek, nodding at where Derek is putting soap in the water.

“Yeah, I know,” Derek replies, doesn't look up from where he started washing a huge casserole.

Stiles shakes his head, smiling quietly to himself, and finishes covering two other plates, puts them in the fridge to join the others. His face is soft, cheeks rosy, and John thinks to himself that he doesn't remember the last time he saw his son look like that.

Then Stiles walks silently to stand beside Derek at the sink, grabs a towel and starts drying everything off. Derek looks at him for a second, never once stopping, and then says, amused, “you know you don't have to, right?”

Stiles snorts and then responds, “yeah, I know. But it's our routine, no?”

Derek smiles and then leans closer to Stiles, pushes his lips against Stiles' hair and murmurs, “Yeah, it is,” with a really soft voice, mouth moving against Stiles' head.

And John thinks _Oh_ , and everything makes a lot more sense, now.

Stiles laughs softly and throws his head back, looks up at Derek from under his lashes, still smiling and then leaves a short kiss on Derek's lips.

John decides to leave them alone for now, decides to ask Stiles about it and see what he has to say, scare him a little for not having told him sooner, but at the same time, he feels like he can't actually forbid them to be together, not when Stiles looks so happy and he's smiling a lot more now, he's laughing, and all the nights he spends at Scott, he's probably spending them at Derek's and.

John is not even mad.

Well, not much, at least.

**

There's a post it note glued to the door of the fridge.

Written on it with a black pen there are only a few words: _I'm officially inviting your boyfriend over for dinner Sunday, just a heads-up._

And then, right under, scribbled in smudged pencil: _OH MY GOD._

**

Derek brings a nice bottle of single malt scotch at dinner and the Sheriff smiles at him, pats him on the back. So everything is good.

The two of them behave perfectly during dinner, something John finds both strange and amusing – not because Derek can't actually behave like a normal civil person, but because Stiles is wearing a button down and is not fidgeting on the spot (he is) and toppling glasses (he does, drenches the whole tablecloth in red wine), and he also tried to cook dinner, before his dad stopped him and called the Italian restaurant downtown and ordered food for fifteen – and everything does go pretty well, if he can say so himself.

He has his fun looking at Stiles squirm when he asks about their relationship, makes Stiles (and Derek) blush when he tells them that he hopes they're being careful when they're having sex, and using protection and Stiles bangs his head on the table and bemoans loudly his father and everything John stands for.

John is pretty glad he doesn't have to pretend to clean his gun.

“We're going upstairs to my room, dad,” Stiles tells him after John left them alone in the kitchen to tidy up. He listened to them laugh softly and probably trade kisses all the time, smiled a little to himself when Derek splashed Stiles with soap and water and Stiles yelped “this shirt is expensive, you butt!”

John looks at them and points a finger in their direction, serious face on. “Door open.”

Stiles opens his mouth, mock-offended, and puts a hand on his chest. “What do you think is gonna happen?”

Derek puts a hand on Stiles shoulder and pushes him towards the stairs, looks back to John still sitting in front of the TV and nods. “I'll go back to my loft soon, we'll keep the door open.”

Stiles complains all the way up. Derek doesn't stop smiling.

John falls asleep for a while after he finishes his glass of scotch and he looks around a little disoriented when he finds the TV still on and the lights out. He sees it's already 1 am and he should be in bed, if he doesn't want to get a crick in his neck he would feel for a week after, so he gets up, shuts the TV off, and takes a quick sweep through the whole house – a habit he still has from when Stiles was little and he wanted to make sure he and Claudia were always safe. Everything looks fine, as always, so he checks the locks and then climbs up the stairs.

He's sighing loudly and touching the spot where he feels sore in the middle of his back, when he sees the door to Stiles' bedroom still open. The lights are out inside, the room half-lit from the lamppost outside and John stops to look at the scene, curious.

Stiles and Derek are both fast asleep on the bed, over the covers, all wrapped up in each other, Stiles's hand gripping tight the back of Derek's shirt and their faces tipped close. He looks at them for a long minute, takes a quiet step inside to see them better and he sighs, shakes his head fondly at them and then goes to find a spare blanket.

Kids.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I read about ADHD and I found out that some researches say that coffee (caffeine) actually helps with focus and the medication, always in small doses and always after consulting your doctor - I don't want to offend anyone, so I'm putting a little note about it.
> 
> The first sex scene happens when Stiles just woke up from a nigthmare and Derek is there, and he decides to act on his instincts and feelings - he actually asks Derek before he does anything, waits for him to say yes, but then pushes Derek down on the bed and they have kinda rough sex. Derek doesn't push him away, is pretty on board with this, but still Stiles thinks of himself like a monster, like he used Derek's body. They talks about it after, and everything was consensual, but still. Mentioning!


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